To Conquer
by WolftheForsaken
Summary: Nuking Ra's spaceship as it was about to enter hyperspace was a bad idea, as young Harry Potter is about to find out. Competent Harry, Competent Dumbledore, Political intrigue, magic in space, Sort of Dark Lord Potter but there's no such thing as Dark Magic. Harry out to conquer the magical word for it's own good, then space, just because he can.
1. Chapter 1

Goa'uld Supreme System Lord Ra relaxed- feeling rather pleased with his latest victory, on his solid gold throne strewn with the finest silks for comfort. His military dominance had been proven once again, and better yet, he'd discovered an entire planet to re-conquer. All in a days work.

It was good to be a god.

"Enter hyperspace," he ordered his First Prime Ah'men. His Jaffa bowed low in reverence before turning to do just that.

"Head for the Tau'ri's home planet."

He could feel his excitement rising – a new(ish), lush, world – his for the taking. An excellent addition to his empire, by the time he'd finished he'd have a very wealthy world indeed to brag about at the next System Lord meeting. Subtly brag, that was, too much would invite trouble. He didn't want to rouse their curiosity and let them discover the Tau'ri's home world for themselves.

He hated poaching.

Not to mention that he'd _finally_ get his revenge on the world that dared to rebel; he'd not forgotten the vile place over the millennia – but getting back to it was another matter entirely. The only reason he hadn't already crushed them beneath his heel was due to sheer luck on their part.

The rebels had buried the Chappa'ai, in their astounding ignorance they believed that _that_ could actually stop his wrath. If Ra had had a Hak'tar to spare… Ra would have firmly instructed them otherwise. As it was…Ra scowled. He didn't like to think about how they'd succeeded, even if it was only due to his own weakness rather than their strength.

Without the Chappa'ai, the planet had been lost, much as Ra had hated to admit it, even to himself. Ra's host had been dying when he'd first stumbled onto the lush world's coordinates – abandoning his Unas host due to injury and by sheer desperate chance, discovering that the native species, the Tau'ri could serve as hosts indefinitely.

He had not known the physical coordinates of the planet upon arriving, courtesy of arriving by Chappa'ai, nor had he learned them during his long reign there. Ra was a System Lord – he didn't have the time or ships to search the galaxy the slow way for a single planet when he had an entire universe of scheming relatives to control and shepherd.

But the Chappa'ai had been _unsealed_.

Better, the Tau'ri had _activated_ it and then walked _through_. If it hadn't turned out to be so useful to him, Ra would have scoffed at the sheer ignorance they'd displayed just by empowering the Chappa'ai. They were like infants, stumbling around on hands and knees in the dark.

That planet – Earth they now called it; Dirt would have been just as fitting – had no chance against him this time. It had grown a great deal in his absence, Ra acknowledged, if only in the privacy of his mind, but it would not be enough. It would be a simple matter to re-educate the populace. He took a firm grip upon the arms of his throne as he unconsciously prepared for the hyper-lurch.

Conquering Earth would be an excellent distraction from the normal squabbling amongst his own people. A new world – particularly if it was as large as he remembered – would be much appreciated in his empire. He always needed more resources.

The engines began to whine and Ra braced himself for launch; it was ungodly to show normal weaknesses such as clumsiness in front of his Jaffa. Gods were above such things. If these last few millennia had taught him anything it was that appearance was _everything_. Particularly when –

\- A noise.

Ra glanced over – the Transporter Rings were activating. All of his Jaffa were accounted for, what –

His memory was excellent. He could hardly forget the primitive weapon he'd enriched. But he'd already –

 _heatpainHEATPAINPAINPAINPAINPAIN._

Everything went black.

#

Harry James Potter lay on the floor of the ramshackle hut on the rock his relations had fled to, shivering under his excuse for a blanket and wishing for a life where no one could tell him what to do again. A life where he could read his own post, have the best blanket, a real bed, and enough food that he wouldn't remember what it was like to be hungry ever again.

He sighed silently; it was useless to dream. Life was _not_ fair – as he well knew.

It was only early evening, but for a lack of anything better to do, the Dursleys had all turned in early. Naturally, they had had no trouble falling asleep after the harried day of travelling. Just as naturally, Harry wasn't one of them. The storm had come in too early for that – now it raged loud and violent and Harry was too concerned about the questionable roof falling down to drift off to sleep.

Instead he lay there, feeling stiffer and colder by the minute, listening to Dudley's snores and slowly being bruised by the uneven floor. If he used just a little imagination, it wasn't too difficult to trick himself into believing a pig was in the room. Not that it would surprise him if the Dursley's valued a random pig over Harry himself anyway – they certainly liked their bacon enough to let one take the sofa.

Imaging Dudley's features on a round pink face was at least mildly entertaining enough to pass the time. It was that or dust art.

The roof shuddered. Harry's image of Dudley with a pig's snout vanished as he concentrated on the flaking ceiling. That had _not_ been thunder. Harry sat up, listening harder.

Was that a voice?

Curious as a cat, Harry stood.

Dudley had thrown a blanket off as he tossed and turned – and Harry had no compunctions about requisitioning it for himself, he left the thicker one on his patch of floor and took the thinner one, wrapped it about himself like a shawl– it _was_ belting it down out there after all - and started a slow shuffle towards the door.

Sneaking was an ability he'd long since cultivated, not that he would need any skill with the cover the furious storm provided, so Harry was as quiet as a mouse as he approached the door, listening intently.

Yes, yes that was definitely a voice out there. Mildly concerned about who could be mad enough to go outside in weather like this, and bored enough to go and look, Harry eased the door open and slipped outside. Perhaps it was a very irritated postman with an entire ship of letters for him!

A single step outside and he was drenched. The rain was pouring down like a second ocean. The waves came so high that they splashed the ground just a few feet in front of him with every swell. Harry peered out into the dark, shivering.

Nothing.

Irritated that he was now wet and still bored, without a mysterious letter to boot, Harry began to turn back – but then a fork of lightening tore the sky apart and the flash of blazing light revealed a shape hunched over the rock.

A very small shape… a snake!

Harry _liked_ snakes. They talked to him. Perhaps the boa from the zoo had found him? What a birthday that would make!

Harry crossed the slippery rock with all the grace of a child, falling head over heels and landing on his rear, nearly squashing the poor thing.

It was not the boa, unfortunately.

 _"Hello, what are you doing here?"_ Harry asked, _"Aren't you cold?"_

#

Ra felt his body slowing, fatally, as the vicious cold set in.

Everything hurt.

He had no clue what had happened, one moment he was upon his main vessel, triumphant, and then there was a searing explosion of heat like he had never known before and immense agony. It was all he could do to drag his aching body out from his dead host.

His host was practically burned to a cinder, instant death from the explosion or the snapped neck – Ra wasn't sure which, it had happened far too quickly for him to register anything but the pain.

It was difficult to unwind himself from a snapped spinal cord, Ra had to move carefully; the last thing he could afford was to get stuck and cooked flesh was tougher to chew a path through, even tougher when it was basically charcoal.

The ship had to have exploded, utterly destroyed, Ra knew. The throne room was the safest place on the vessel, protected by layered shields and multiple reinforced walls. If his host had actually died – nothing of the ship could be left except scraps.

Ra eased himself from the corpse – and was instantly drenched by rain.

That couldn't be good.

Ra looked around himself carefully, fully extended his ruff to sense his surroundings in exquisite detail.

The first things he saw were the bodies. His Horus Guards surrounded him in a tight circle of rapidly cooling corpses. They must have tried to protect him. Their instincts had apparently been quicker than his, Ra frowned, vexed with himself. That was not the behaviour of a god. God's knew events before others, not the other way around. Still, he was grateful for their reflexes.

Their loyalty would not be forgotten. The Tau'ri would pay dearly –and it _must_ have been the Tau'ri. How they'd gotten their hands on the weapon he'd launched through the Stargate, Ra didn't know. Grudgingly, he admired the cunningness of their plan. His sensors would have easily detected and disabled any weapon they could have fired at the ship directly. It was clever to use his transportation system against him. The potency of the weapon was Ra's fault. He'd enhanced the primitive bomb with Naquadah.

They had gotten lucky. Once again it was Ra's weakness not the Tau'ri's strength to have almost defeated him.

Ra _despised_ that. What was the point of his endless preparation? The sheer amount of resources put into development if _luck_ would win the day? If _luck_ could bring down his best ship, his most loyal warriors…

It wasn't right. He was a _god_. The world bowed to him, not he to it.

His First Prime, Ah'men had been with him for millennia– he forgot the exact dates. It was before the tradition of using molten gold upon the brow to identify their servants – Ra remembered that much. Now Ah'men was _gone_ and for the first time in a _very_ long time, Ra was alone – and he certainly hadn't fallen back down to Abydos.

Abydos didn't have this great mass of water. Abydos had no sea; it was a desert planet, left as such as a reminder of Ra's beginnings on the Tau'ri home planet of Earth.

Abydos was not so _cold_ either.

Without the shielding of his host, Ra was very cold indeed. But there was no living Jaffa in sight – in fact, Ra realised, panicked, there wasn't _anything_ in sight.

He had emerged from his host and wriggled up on top of his deceased Jaffa, who lay on top of the remains of his ship – which was swiftly sinking into the ocean.

The storm was almost certainly due to his ship's crash landing, and it wouldn't die down until the upper atmosphere had calmed. Ra had little time before his only protection sank under the assault of the enormous waves and he was at the mercy of the cold, deep, sea.

This was _not_ how he would die.

Ra raised his body as high as it could go, then he cringed, curling into himself in a wince of pain as his body informed him that whilst he was alive, he was by no means uninjured.

No rival Goa'uld could see him like this. It would be suicide. He had to rely on himself alone to get out of this mess.

Ra forced his body to rise once more, his ruff flaring as he tried to detect anything useful.

A scent.

Something foul blew in with the next wave faint enough to only be noticeable since it wasn't _salt salt and more salt_ that currently overpowered his senses. Ra twisted himself to face the stench even as he snapped his jaws horizontally in distaste, his tongue curling in disgust as it registered the scent.

Burning plastic.

So this world he had fallen to was more developed than he usually allowed but not enough to be dangerous. Probably not held by a rival Goa'uld, so he was at least somewhere relatively safe where he could recover from his injuries. Plastic required a good level of technological development – burning it said that the planet was not developed enough to care about the risks, and that they hadn't discovered more useful materials. It was a fairly good indicator of their level.

Ra took one last look about him – everyone was dead, there was nothing he could salvage here – then he orientated his thin body into the direction of that reek and launched himself into the cold water.

It. Was. Freezing.

Gods did _not_ die.

Ra struggled against the waves, sometimes they helped to propel him forward, and sometimes they nearly drowned him. And he had to writhe and push his way back to the surface. His energy was fading fast. Only sheer will to live kept him slithering through the stinging water. His scales were rigid with burns, and he felt as if he too had nearly been cooked in his skin. His muscles protested with every gyration, Ra knew he was in a bad way – it was going to take a lot of time to recover without a sarcophagus.

Burning plastic meant fire. Where there was fire there was a host. A host meant _healing,_ it meant _warmth_ it meant _life._ Shortly followed by revenge on the Tau'ri, naturally. It was a mantra Ra repeated again and again to drive him against the relentless waves and propel him ever onward. _Host host host host host._

The wooden hut appeared slowly – this was a primitive world then, good. Ra turned slightly, flaring his ruff to help him judge the distance and force of the waves behind him, then turned again to sense the height of the island's land, extending his tongue to test the air.

Slithering backwards by half his length, Ra braced.

The next wave picked him up and launched him upwards onto the rock. Hard.

Pain.

Ra screamed as his burned and battered body smacked into the rock head on.

Thousand of years of experience made him curl his tail firmly around a prominent rock, despite the agony, before another malignant wave – vicious things- could drag him back into the deeps and keep him there.

Slowly, cursing aloud with every scale of progress up the blasted rock, Ra hauled himself onto solid ground at last.

He was exhausted, his energy spent.

This was the end.

 _"I will not die here!"_ he screamed defiance to the world. _"I am a god! I am Ra!"_

He didn't know whom he expected to convince, but Ra couldn't fade silently into the black. That was not who he was.

He curled about himself, trying to preserve warmth no matter how hopeless it was, even that movement strained his burned and bruised flesh almost beyond what he could endure.

 _"Hello, what are you doing here?"_ a voice asked, _"Aren't you cold?"_

Ra looked up.

A host!

It was a child, a particularly thin and scrawny one at that – he couldn't be more than eight seasons old – but a host was a host!

 _"What type of snake are you? I've never seen one who has a sideways mouth."_ His Future-Host asked.

Ra simmered with fury. He knew his Future-Host was referring to a mere animal. Anger gave him warmth – he reared up to his full height, powered by righteous wrath.

 _"I am no mere snake!"_ He proclaimed in his most godly voice, _" I am Ra!"_

 _"Your name is Ra?"_ The boy continued mindlessly, _"It's nice to meet you Ra."_

Ra grimaced, and began reviewing everything he remembered about healing hosts who had mental issues. He knew the chemistry was very fragile in that organ and had little practice dealing with it. One mistake and his host might die.

He'd hold the healing then, he'd skip to finding a new, sane, host, who was beautiful, strong, and worthy of Ra.

Then it occurred to Ra that Future-Host was _talking_ to him in his true form. How was that possible? Telepathy was the only way Ra knew… the boy might not be a boy after all. He had to be cautious.

 _"How do you talk to me in this form, human?"_ Ra asked. If the boy was not fully human… possessing him might not be quite so beneficial to him. Or the boy could simply be more evolved in which case Ra _had_ to have him.

The Maybe-Boy shrugged. _"I just do. It's probably because I am a freak."_

 _"What is a Freak?"_ Ra asked. Was it a species? The boy looked human, but maybe he was only half? He could probably manage to possess a half-human being. The genetics couldn't be too far away from the standard if the chid had the typical physiology of a human.

 _"Me, I suppose."_ The boy replied easily – oblivious to how the answer infuriated Ra, was he being so dim-witted on purpose? _"Are you a water-snake or something? Why are you out here tonight? I don't think there are any mice here."_

 _"I am not a snake!"_ Ra insisted, offended. " _I am a god! My ship crashed, my host died, I swam here, but I am wounded, I can not hear you very well, dear child, bring me closer to your lips so that I might hear you properly."_

 _"Oh no!"_ The Maybe-Boy-Maybe-Freak gasped, _"Are you alright? Do you want to come inside?"_

 _"Yes. Yes, inside where it is warm so that we may speak properly. You must tell me more of these Freaks."_

The child picked him up – carefully, Ra noted, the boy must be in awe of his godly presence – and drew him close to the warmth of his body.

Not that it was very warm. The child was clothed in some vermin-pecked cloth that was barely staying on his hollow bones, and that only because the sheeting rain plastered it to his form like a second skin rather than the strength of the material.

Inside the hut was little better, but at least the rain was no longer assaulting him, and the furious winds of the storm were a little softer.

The child laid him with great respect onto a mound of warmth that Ra luxuriated in, even if the method was beneath his godly status. It must be some beast of burden; Ra knew those were often kept inside with the slaves, as the child exchanged his wet robe for a dry one. Ah, a blanket, not a robe. The boy was in better-fitted clothes underneath. Those clothes were dyed and engraved, proving Ra to be correct upon the technological level of this world.

He did so like to be right.

The vermin-pecked material was hung up in front of a fireplace – upon which lay shrivelled blackened material – the stench that had drawn Ra here.

No wonder they tried burning plastic if this was all they had. It was a very poor place indeed. Even Abydos had more wealth.

 _"Sorry about that, but my Aunt will freak if she knows that I've been outside."_

 _"Your Aunt is also a Freak?"_ Ra asked, pleased that the topic was raised without his effort. So it _was_ genetic.

 _"No, I meant that she would get angry."_

The boy made little sense. Did Freaks rage? Was that the source of their power? Some sort of berserker? But how did that tie in with speaking to the Goa'uld? Ra took a moment to consider it – then stopped. He would know all as soon as he took possession of his host's mind.

 _"You have aided,"_ – not rescued, never rescued – _"A god. Your aunt will reward you."_ Ra assured easily.

 _"My aunt doesn't like snakes."_

 _"I'm not a snake."_

 _"Yes you are."_

 _"No I'm not, I am a god!"_ Ra persisted. How much damage was he supposed to heal in this one? How much damage could a human mind take yet still walk and talk?

 _"You look like a snake, you talk like a snake, so of course you're a snake. What did your owner on the boat call you?"_

Ra writhed in fury, hating most of all how weak his body was, he could barely slither. " _I am a god! Look here, little one, look at my neck, do you see my ruff. I am an ancient and wise Goa'uld. Ra."_

The boy leaned close, curious, _"I don't under—"_

With the last of his strength, Ra launched himself into the open mouth of the child; victorious at last as he sank his teeth into the soft flesh of the throat and writhed inside, finally warm.

#

Harry lifted the snake carefully – mindful of it's injuries. By the sounds of it, here was another zoo escapee; Harry was beginning to see a pattern.

At least talking to a deluded snake was more interesting than listening to Dudley snore – though those would be screams if he woke up and found a snake on him, which Harry well knew even as he deposited the creature onto his cousin – gently, so as not to wake Dudley. He liked his petty revenges, but he wasn't suicidal just yet.

He hung the blanket to dry by the fireplace – not that his Uncle had actually managed to get a fire going with crisp packets. Petunia would _not_ be happy to know that he'd gone outside. Although she'd probably show more concern about the state of the blanket.

What Ra expected him to see, Harry didn't know. Perhaps Ra had some special markings?

He didn't find out.

As soon as he opened his mouth to ask what he was supposed to be looking for – Ra leapt into it!

Disgusted, Harry flailed backwards…

#

Ra flexed in relief. All his wounds were soothed by the presence of a host. The warmth eased him down to his tail, nourishment poured into him once more. Despite the half-human heritage, the physical state of the boy was no different to a normal human, and Ra curled up around the spine and nudged his head up into the brain without difficulty.

His host was flailing.

Before the boy could cause any more trouble – and before the Freak side could emerge, Ra released the usual strain of chemicals into the mind, and exerted his telepathic influence with the all the mental might he could muster.

The boy had a shield.

How unusual Ra thought as he strained a little against its smooth walls. Well it was no matter, he'd encountered many different species in is millennia, a mental shield wasn't an obstacle to him – he just needed to push – just a little more –

-and something _cruel,_ something _strong,_ something _more_ pushed back. Hard.

#

Alerted by Harry's panic, something sinister awoke, deep inside Harry's very being.

Something was _wrong_.

It was not the violent muggle, it knew, for it could sense no physical harm in his child that he would have to struggle to repair. It was something _old._ Something _cruel._

Something attacked his mind! His Occlumency shields were being targeted! That meant Legilimency, and that particular branch of mind magic almost certainly meant _Dumbledore._

No! It raged. That man would take northing more from him!

Voldemort gathered his stolen magic and struck back with ruthless efficiency and might, his attack as fatally vicious as he could make it. Dumbledore was a fool to challenge him mind-to-mind, they both knew who had the superior talent here, but Voldemort couldn't let this chance pass for revenge.

#

Ra screamed as the counterattack speared his telepathic presence with creative brutality.

This must be the Freak.

Ra wouldn't allow it to win! He was a god! He was Ra! If the Freak won here… Ra would die.

#

Voldemort raged.

How dare this _invader_ call him a freak! He was a Dark Lord! He was immortal.

The invader was clearly not Dumbledore; it was too old for that. The area where memories were stored was too vast for a human, Voldemort noted as he caught a glimpse inside with his next attack. This thing was _ancient_ – not that it mattered! Once it was dead, those memories were Voldemort's to explore at leisure.

This host was weak – there was only room for one!

#

Harry slumped to the floor in a daze, his emerald green eyes utterly vacant as his attention focused inwards.

His mind was… waging war… against itself. But not itself. That would imply there were more of him, there wasn't, there was only one _him,_ but there was a _them_ and another _them._ Harry didn't like it or _them._

He was Ra! He was a god! He would survive! He would conquer! He was ancient!

No.

He was Voldemort! He was the Dark Lord! He was immortal! He would not be conquered!

No.

He was _Harry James Potter!_ He was _his_ , himself and no other. A great tidal wave of golden light rose up behind Harry as he fought for his very soul.

The new power was overwhelming to all of them. It felt like desperation, the kind of despair you felt when all hope was lost but you kept on fighting because to take even one step back was worse than death. It felt like a blazing rage as destructive as a forest fire, primal in its ferocity and utterly without mercy.

It felt like a mother's love.

The golden wave surged forwards, emerald green fires flickering at the peripherals; it crashed over the mental battlefield – washing everything clean.

Ra's voice flickered first. His voice weakened, becoming horrified, there was an inhuman squeal and then it was silenced and the migraine inducing presence was gone. Just gone.

Voldemort tried to hide, retreating back where it had come from, but the wave was too big. There was nowhere to hide. Now that it could find him, it wouldn't give him a second chance to flee. Voldemort raged against it – but it was futile. He had been weak, weakened further by the first attack and now he was trapped.

Without a bang or a whimper, Voldemort drowned.

#

And that was that.

#

As Harry figured it, much later, it had been like this.

Voldemort was intrinsically weak; a few scraps of a soul at best, with only wisps of magic to his name, the rest stolen from Harry – which naturally made utilising his loot rather difficult. Voldemort was a genius – there was no denying that but genii could be a fragile lot, and Voldemort had broken young. Studying Occlumency and Legilimency gave him an edge – but Voldemort wasn't used to defensive mind magic. The offensive side, he was exceptionally skilled at, unrivalled in fact, but practice at defending his mind was rather hard to come by when you were Voldemort – who would dare? Let alone defending _another's_ mind when you were only a soul partially possessing it.

Ra on the other hand, was _huge._ He had millennium of experiences and knowledge – he should have been able to overwhelm the other two in an instant. Physically, though, he was on his last scale, approaching the edge of shock, he didn't have the reserves for a protracted battle. It didn't help that Ra was, by nature, inflexible, and a Muggle to boot. Thousands upon thousands of years of sustained superiority didn't encourage creative thinking, he had cunning, but he couldn't adapt, and he lacked a magically enhanced strength of spirit.

Harry may have been the youngest of the three – his wealth of experience was the smallest. Yet he was unquestionably the strongest. His subconscious had been waging a war against a parasite for nine and three quarter years. He _knew_ how to fight a mental invasion at a soul-deep level. It wasn't even an effort anymore. More than that, he was the only one of the three who was whole, and he was a stubborn one. With Ra and Voldemort both focusing on the other, it was easy to fight his way clear of the miasma of confusion with a burst of will, accompanied by a rather enraged surge of accidental magic, full of a dying mother's wrath, and it was done.

He was Harry James Potter.

He was, apparently, a wizard.

A wizard with a bit of another wizard in his head, who had at one point been immortal as well as dead, and he had an alien Egyptian god in his head too, who was also immortal.

Huh.

Well.

That was new.

Harry did the only sensible thing and promptly passed out; his hand catching on the damp blanket and dragging it to the floor behind him as exhaustion and shock dragged him down into the black.

#

First foray into HP territory (Published foray anyway) so I'd really appreciate opinions, as well as grammatical nit-picking. Also this has been sitting on my hard drive since March 2015, it's up to 40 000 words, but the rest needs editing before publishing. Oh, and I was serious about those opinions :)


	2. Chapter 2

100 followers (including A03) has successfully flattered me into publishing this. Enjoy, and thank you.

#

Hours passed, as Harry lay collapsed on the floor. He wasn't unaware, precisely, but he was unconscious.

Harry knew he was dreaming – except it wasn't quite a dream. He felt certain, somehow, that his surroundings – a great misty expanse – were not only absolutely real, but also inside his own head.

He didn't know how, but –

Well of course, this was the first stage of Occlumency, though it was different than what he was used to, and it certainly had never been this much of a mess -

Occlumency.

Slowly, Harry thought over that word, his thoughts as sluggish as a sloth crawling through a swamp. It was a new concept, but not. New? He frowned, wondering why he'd thought the Art new; it had been sixty years since he first learned of it, that was hardly –

Something was wrong Harry realised panic fluttering in his heart. Something was very wrong. He, They, _he._

He gripped his head as a vicious migraine struck, obliterating all three of his thought streams. Pain was all he knew, oh _Morgana_ but it hurt – his mind was splitting at the seams.

His name was Harry James Potter. Harry held onto that thought with a desperate sense of need, feeling his uncertainties lessen with every repetition. He was Harry James Potter. Harry Potter. Harry. Harry. Harry Potter. Harry James Potter.

Yes, that was right.

That first solid thought formed an excellent foundation for his next one; he was eleven years old.

Harry James Potter, eleven years old.

After that, he wasn't too sure about the rest. Something was wrong, he knew that much, Morgana's wand but he was so confused.

Who was Morgana? Why was he thinking about wands?

 _"Don't you know anything, Mudblood?" The blonde boy sneered; an ugly expression made uglier by the sheer amount of smugness the other boy's magic was projecting. "Morgana was the Queen of Avalon – the first purely magical country. She was the first Animagus, the first Healer and the Mother of the Dark Arts. Honestly, why they let your sort in when you don't even know_ that." _The blonde laughed, mocking, and Tom felt a helpless humiliating rage as others followed, even the Professor smiled, his magic full of contempt and Tom hated it, hated them. He'd show them, he'd show them all._

That had not been his memory. Harry knew that, distantly, but others crowded in, drawn by the recollection. It felt like they were trying to drown him in memories, eagerly trying to shove themselves down his throat. The blonde boy – there were hundreds of memories of him, the mist rushed in, pressing them all on Harry. Morgana – he's studied so much about her. Avalon – oh the possibilities. Animagery – a proper wizarding talent. Healing – there were thousands of memories associated with Healing, all trying to drown Harry in their remembered pain. Tom was voracious to know it all.

Screaming and clawing at his face, Harry shoved all of it _away._

It went.

Harry groaned as his head throbbed, the ocean of mist ringing around him, thick and wild, it covered as far as the eye could see apart from a tiny island of clear space around him. It pulsed red in time with the pain - as if he needed the extra warning – and swirled miles high into the sky before crashing down in ethereal tidal waves.

Alright; the memories – and they were definitely memories – had been pushed away for now, but Harry knew they wouldn't stay away long. It wasn't natural for memories to drift free, they were tied down, bound by a thousand thousand connections to other memories, layered and crossed and layered again until they built a tapestry of life.

But that was OK, Harry took a deep breath and concentrated. His name was Harry James Potter, and he was eleven years old.

He almost expected his own memories to come and try to kill him now, but of course, they didn't. They were already squared away by dint of him living, growing and thinking. They'd settled into a pattern already, a nice, stable pattern. One that was currently drowned by mist somewhere _out there_.

Stable memories meant accessible. He could clearly remember the important bits; it was his birthday. He'd been sleeping on the floor of that hut; there had been an almighty storm, a voice – and a snake.

The snake!

Harry's hand flew to his throat, but of course, there was nothing there. Ra had, eww it was so gross, but Harry made himself think about Ra. Ra had tried to bite him? But he'd jumped into Harry's mouth – he gagged, but he was too used to keeping food inside his stomach under duress to actually throw up – and then Harry had collapsed.

So this was all due to Ra?

Harry frowned. How could a snake do this to his mind? Had he been poisoned? Some sort of venom?

No, it wasn't something so…muggle, what a strange word… as poison. There had been a battle. Harry strained to remember it plainly but it was all so confusing. It was a battle, but it had all been within him. There had been …three sides? Yes, that was it. The pain in his skull eased slightly as Harry literally thought his way through the problem.

Ra had tried to possess him. Feeling rather queasy, Harry forced himself to continue that train of thought. Once Ra – with his really, really sharp teeth – had gotten inside Harry, something else had happened in his head.

The battle.

Harry shuddered. It was bad enough that he had nothing to his name – but at least he'd always had the privacy of his mind to resent his circumstances. Ra had tried to take that last sanctuary away, and Harry wouldn't forget or forgive in a hurry.

But something _within_ Harry that _wasn't_ Harry had fought back and it had been damn good at it.

Voldemort, it had thought of itself as Voldemort.

The two similar but completely different entities had fought each other. Ra had wanted to possess Harry for himself, and Voldemort had wanted to protect Harry to preserve his own little hideaway, which had also been in Harry, so he'd fought the intruder.

Feeling _really_ queasy Harry slowly came to accept the idea that he'd had someone else inside him all along and hadn't noticed.

The sheer revulsion settled a fair bit when Harry realised that it didn't matter; he'd won. Only Harry remained. The other two were… dissolved? Rendered down into their most basic components?

No longer a threat. Yes, he liked that thought. It was much simpler. They were _gonegonegone_ so he could stop feeling sick.

That still left him with a large problem though. His mind was strange and he didn't know why. All he did know was that he didn't have much time, so he continued remembering what he could of the battle. He needed to know what it had done to him to know how to fix it. That made enough sense that the mist retreated a little more in the wake of logic.

That wave of gold had been magic. Harry knew magic existed, because _Voldemort_ had known that it had existed. Both Ra and Voldemort had fallen to Harry's magic – they'd been _absorbed_ by it.

Slowly, it began to make a strange kind of sense.

Harry's magic had destroyed both Ra's and Voldemort's consciousness, but it had been too…weak… to get rid of everything. No, no wait, Harry paid attention to his instincts. That didn't seem quite right. That magic had been anything but weak. It had been strong, shaped, and full of will, intent, and purpose.

It had been _planned_.

The Magic – not Harry's magic – had been smart. It had seen the options, and chosen the best one. It had felt like it was weighing, measuring, judging. That bright golden wave had destroyed the minds behind the powers that attacked him, but in it's wake it had deliberately left the flotsam and jetsam of memory.

Why? Harry didn't know. Nevertheless, he did sense that it was for his own good, somehow. That was The Magic's purpose.

He did not mind that The Magic must have been within him all this time too. The Magic was …natural, good, and kind. In fact, Harry felt rather better about his life in general knowing he hadn't been quite so alone as he'd first thought.

Why it had left a snake wrapped around his spine, Harry couldn't fathom, but maybe as that wasn't inside his head, The Magic hadn't been able to do anything about it? No, that didn't make sense either; The Magic was powerful enough to affect the physical, a much easier objective than the mental, so there had to have been a reason if it was as intelligent as Harry knew it was.

A tiny drop of mist drifted closer to Harry. Harry eyed it suspiciously, wary of drowning again in insanity, but it was small. Harry could deal with it when it was so small, surely and it had to have broken off for a reason. He held up a palm and let the drop of mist settle onto his skin and sink inside of him.

Oh yes, that was right. Ra was a Goa'uld, and a Goa'uld came with health benefits like a lifespan of thousands of years. Yes that made sense now. The Magic had left it because it was Good For Harry. The…Goa'uld… was just an extra organ. Yes, that sounded much more palatable.

Even if it had _really sharp teeth._ Sitting pretty inside his brain.

That wasn't something Harry wanted to mess with unless he wanted people cutting into his grey matter to get it out. Was that even possible? Gruesome mental pictures were all too easy to summon of knives and blood and muggle machinery.

No. It was an extra organ. That was it. One that put something called Naquadah into his blood stream and healed him of everything. Indeed, why should he want it gone? It was a little creepy, but quick healing sounded very useful. Vernon did have a temper after all, and there were only so many dislocations his shoulder could take before it would refuse to pop back in the socket all together. He was strong now, very strong; Strong enough to throw a grown man across the room; Strong enough to stop Dudley from hurting him.

As long as he didn't go insane tonight, Harry would be a very happy boy, all things considered.

Harry was a survivor at heart, and one with quick reflexes and good instincts. As such, he swiftly noted that he'd thought about Ra, and the relevant explanatory memory had come to him from the chaos, and Harry had made sense of it and it had gone, making the chaos around him a fraction of a fraction of a per cent smaller.

He thought about the chaos. It really was quite a mess. Harry needed to organise it – Aunt Petunia hated mess and made Harry hate it more –it should be neatly ordered.

A stream of misty substance broke itself away from the enormous ring that bordered Harry's tiny clearing of sanity and helpfully weaselled its way over to his outstretched hand. It was much bigger than the Goa'uld fact file, but it was something Harry knew he needed to know. It just had that sort of feel to it, oily and tough but mysterious too.

Occlumency, Harry realised as the mist melted into his palm, yes, yes, of course, that was right.

Occlumency was the magic of the mind. It gave a wizard conscious control over their brain; it was horrifically dangerous if misused, neither muggle nor wizard understood enough of the brain to know what would cause an accidental lobotomy or worse, but once learned it gave you control of yourself. A talent any self-respecting wizard needs.

With Occlumency, you could _make_ yourself focus, you could set aside emotion, you could cut off input from four senses to concentrate on the fifth, or cut off one sense altogether. You could forcibly memorise information and recall it perfectly later, but it was the side effects of Occlumency that were the real benefit. Greater mental awareness was a passive trait, and so a wizard who had studied Occlumency would never be caught unaware by a subtle spell or potion, or even a magical being's natural influence.

To say nothing of the defence against Legilimency – which, Harry thought with irritation, would have been very handy to know _before_ someone and something had tried to and succeeded at possessing him.

Well that settled it. This was what he needed to fix this mess. Now, where to begin?

Voldemort had discovered it after eavesdropping on some of his peers, Harry recalled vaguely. If they could do it, he had to do it too, and better. It hadn't been difficult to find a few books on it, he hadn't had a tutor, but he'd never needed one to thrive.

Olsen's book had had the best introduction, speaking of how to relax, how to empty the mind of all extraneous thoughts until you could sense your magic dancing within you, and follow it to your mindscape and the subconscious. That was step one.

Harry decided he must have accidentally skipped that step somehow, and proceeded to consider Selwyn's caution on not changing anything of your 'metaphysical interface of the subconscious' until you understood how it lay naturally so as not to cause any damage you couldn't fix.

This was all novice level. Harry scowled, impatient. He'd done this sixty years ago! Why was he bothering with this pointless revision. He had greater things to work on! He needed to –

Harry James Potter. Eleven years old.

Harry groaned and clutched at his head as the mist retreated again, resentful and looming. Did he not know that the mist knew no boundary? It was supposed to suffocate all it reached. Harry looked at it, forced his eyes away and grimaced. Well he was going to have to skip stage two as well it seemed, he couldn't _see_ what this mindscape business was supposed to look like under all this mist, and the mist wasn't going anywhere until he'd squared it away with Occlumency. He'd just have to make it up as he went along and hope for the best.

Step three: enrich mind with magic.

Harry supposed that if he'd done step one, he'd understand that better, but both Selwyn and Olsen had agreed, and Voldemort concurred, that magic was within you, all of you. With the proper focus and training, you could make a channel or widen an existing one in the mind, giving you the power to make permanent changes without the need for the initial deep meditative state.

It was a good thing that Harry already knew what his magic was supposed to feel like. When The Magic had flooded his mind, Harry had been there, he'd seen how it had moved. More, those tiny flickers of emerald green fire- those had felt like _him_.

Bright green fire, as comforting as the thousand hugs he'd never known, as soul chilling as the cruel laughter that haunted his dreams. It was the fire within that warmed him when the Dursley's locked him outside; it was the cool hand on his forehead when he lay fevered and shivering in his cupboard; it gave him wings when he needed to fly and it would give him peace when he needed to rest.

It came as he beckoned, as it always did for children, filling Harry with light and life. He felt like a god with it dancing through his soul – and it was easy, so very easy, to entice a few sparks ( _Just a little, murmured Voldemort, he was fourteen and panting on the floor of the Chamber, just a drop, precise, careful, around not through_ ) up into his mind.

The spark became a river of green that eagerly accepted the new channel, running to make a moat around his mind, surgically precise to avoid that accidental lobotomy. It was Voldemort's craftiness and finesse that guided his effort, carefully anchoring the stream, layering it seven ways back and forth and around and over and under, reconnecting it down to the heart smoothly without creating a leak or a reservoir until it was a perfect weave of protection.

Instantly, Harry felt calmer. The pain became manageable, the red throb slowed to a pinkish tap-dance of a migraine and Harry took a deep breath, pleased with himself. Voldemort had taken months to work out how to do that safely the first time. Already The Magic had been proved right. This would be good for him eventually. ( _He'd show them all.)_

Memories did not exist in a void. Each one was a piece of a puzzle, a torn tatter of the tapestry. Harry didn't just know what Voldemort had known; he'd _felt_ it too. Lived it as him, and all of the memories of studying Occlumency, practicing it, talking about it, and even the beginnings of Legilimency all crowded inside his head, remembered.

Harry pushed them away, it added to his pain somewhere out there, but at this point any addition was negligible another drop hardly mattered when the damn was bursting.

Step four was supposed to be the hard bit. Re-organising what you found into something more accessible, but still in the pattern that _was_ you; The pattern that you found in step two but was currently languishing and dying under the mist.

Improvise then, Harry decided. He liked that word. It sounded much more confident than guess.

Absorbing those earlier fragments had removed them. Maybe he should absorb the rest too? That would clear the land, and Harry would be able to see the pattern he needed to follow…

No.

Ra was responsible for most of the mist. A few weeks ( _fifty four years_ ) worth of memory from Voldemort, not even anything emotionally intense, just reading, and Harry had started calling himself Voldemort and thinking like him. If Harry absorbed all of what Ra had left to offer… he'd become Ra. Ra Two? Ra the Second?

Harry frowned, something was off about that thought – but he'd already forgotten it or lost it to the mist. Something.

Where was he?

Memories wanted to be connected.

Harry reached a hand out to the mist, thinking only of mind-magic. If he was going to do this, he might as well gather all of the resources he could first. Then he could upgrade his decision to a _guesstimation._ He liked that word too.

A wisp of mist the size of a scarf streamed out from the mass, curling around his wrist and snaking all the way up to his shoulder, sinking into his skin with a pleased hiss.

( " _Whose better now, pureblood," Tom spat, sneering into the face of the prefect whose eyes were wide with alarm. It was supposed to be a joke. Just a bit of fun with the mudblood. A minor compulsion – wouldn't have harmed anyone –stop, please, I-_ )

Yes, he'd have to construct shields, Harry thought. Subtle ones were the best of course, but he had no need to hide anymore. The traps would be _vicious_ he'd –

 _(Dumbledore's eyes were too blue. Voldemort tasted lemons and_ knew _the wizard was in his mind, but he couldn't find him, couldn't stop it. "The Restricted Section again, Tom? What was is this time?")_

First if he couldn't absorb the mist, he'd have to reshape it, weave an artificial tapestry, make it his.

 _(Voldemort looked into the eyes of his guide to the Pyramids, he didn't have_ time _to learn hieroglyphs. He'd just take what he needed; by tomorrow, he'd be ready to start his real studies. Honestly, this was so much easier. Why didn't everyone just do this? But it was impossible to fathom the stupidity of the world.)_

But what pattern to use?

Ra was from space, Harry thought dazedly. Space was full of space, lots of room for a bit of spring-cleaning. It seemed perfectly logical to Harry to use something as familiar as the galaxy ( **my galaxy** ) as a base. It would do for a guesstimation.

Thinking of Ra – Harry held out his hand to the mist once more, and thought about the brain, and Ra, who was currently physically inside his brain – but that bit he still wasn't thinking about.

A tendril of mist about the size of a flag drifted closer. Harry made himself absorb that one. All the films said aliens were smart, so Ra probably knew a lot more about the brain than even _Voldemort_ did. Of course, Harry thought Ra was only a filthy muggle, but it would be Harry who was the stupid one if he did something permanent before getting all the information he could.

Ra knew a _lot._

( **Warm, soft, buzzing, Ra slid his body inside, wrapping himself tenderly about the spine, tasting the chemicals that zapped through his fins. It was no Unas, this strange creature, but it was so warm.)**

The brain was so complicated. There were billions of cells, strange machines called glands, chemicals that always came in pairs and - Harry felt dizzy. Ra didn't think like a human, Merlin's staff, Ra didn't even think in _English_.

 **(There were dozens and dozens of new sensations. The Unas had been primitive in comparison. The creature's mind was so complex. Fear tasted sweet over his mandibles, a second of excitement and his body lit up for hours. And sex, oh, no wonder the warm bloods mated so often without issue. Ra felt like he was flying. He needed more.)**

Harry jerked himself free, blushing as red as a tomato. That was, that was, he flushed again, feeling jittery and that if his eyes got any wider they'd fall out.

How many more memories like that were in there?

No! No he wasn't going to think about it. It was disgusting, icky, and wrong and Aunt Petunia would _murder_ him so dead.

Harry launched himself into his task. He reached for a droplet of mist but didn't absorb it. Instead, he looked into it; Ra was walking down the ramp onto his new planet. **(The battle had been short. These creatures knew nothing of war.)**

Harry reshaped the memory, and transformed it from Ra-flavoured to something a little more… Harry.

With a thought, the mist became a tiny glowing star and Harry let it hang in the air, slowly orbiting his torso as he caught the next bit of wisp, keeping his newly shaped memories away from the raw ones.

Keeping certain ideas together for the sake of order, Harry crafted entire galaxies, drop by drop.

After the first hundred stars, he started adding colours for variety. Once he had a little more space as the mist shrunk, he made entire star systems including dwarfs, super giants, and pulsars. He made separate galaxies, some elliptical, some spiral or spiral barred. Then, he had to get more creative, forming individual solar systems that orbited each star, full of planets. Most planets had a moon or several. Some he gave asteroid belts, comets, and clouds of coloured gas until he had an entire, vast, universe.

Then it was done.

The mist was gone, and his killer migraine with it, revealing a very earthy tapestry of thought and magic. Apparently, Harry's natural state was more like a small garden, with wilted roses and dead grass. It looked very much like Petunia's garden.

Harry glanced down at it, critically, and then up to the grand display above. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the roses drop another inch, a shade browner, and a handful of petals fell.

Harry caught them more out of habit than intent, memories of the cupboard he saw when he peered inside. No wonder the roses were dying, with that sort of nourishment. Harry's gaze was enchanted upwards by the light of his galaxy and Harry thought the view was rather ruined by this dead patch right in the middle of a nice bit of void.

It just wasn't tidy to have two different themes in one mind.

With a shrug, Harry reshaped the petals in his hand into a tiny asteroid, a pitiful one, all burned and pockmarked, and set it to orbiting around him whilst he dug the rest up.

Fistfuls of dead grass, torn roughly from the ground became the Earth, the roses the Sun, and the soil filled out the Solar System quite nicely.

Yes, that was better, Harry thought, admiring the finished product. He laid back on the nothingness between the Moon and Mars, and felt a curious mix of exhaustion and pleasure.

The exhaustion he was used to, it was the pleasure that was odd.

He deserved it of course, he had no idea how much time has passed outside, but even if it had taken place at the speed of thought, it had still been hard work, and the end result was as vastly exquisite as it was problematic.

He'd seen, if not absorbed, all of the memories he'd been…gifted with.

Magic existed. Aliens existed.

Voldemort had believed the magical world to be stumbling towards grave danger. Dumbledore's influence and his policies combined with wizarding arrogance and a lack of understanding of muggles was already a problem. One incident and they'd be exposed en masse leading to chaos. If they just _listened…_

Ra had an entire _empire_ of humans relying on him to defend their worlds from other Goa'ulds, to supply then with vital off-world resources and provide symbiotes for them to live. The fragile stability of the galaxy depended upon his continuing presence.

Harry had for better or for worse inherited the lot.

"Fuck me."


	3. Chapter 3

#

Harry came to and instantly regretted it.

He felt all sick and shivery. When he moved to press a hand over his stomach, the limb was clammy and shook life a leaf. His head felt fuzzy, he tasted blood in the back of his mouth, and there was something wrong with his hearing.

Weakly he peered around only to discover that there was something wrong with his eyes too. They began to water instantly, forcing Harry to squint and wince until he took his glasses off to give them a good rub; naturally, that just made the marching band playing on his skull do a trombone serenade.

More than that, he was cold, his bones felt brittle, and they ached from within with deep wracking throbs of pain.

Supressing a groan, Harry carefully levered himself upright – and promptly decided that, actually, the cold floor felt rather good and he'd much rather stay put.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying desperately not to be sick. The last thing he needed was Aunt Petunia screaming at him for being dirty, or having to find a mop somewhere in this filthy muggle hovel. If he threw up she'd probably make him use his shirt to clean.

He was going to be fine, he told his quivering stomach. All of this would soon pass. He'd suffered a terrible head injury, and his brain had overloaded. A bunch of hormones had been stressed during the upheaval, and everything upstairs had been tossed around like leaves in a hurricane. The connections had misfired, but they were still _there_.

The pain would pass.

This time.

He had been very close to death, Harry realised with a sickening sort of dread that did nothing to help the whole _don't throw up_ campaign. Mind magic was _dangerous_ even when you followed instructions for a well-studied branch of it like Legilimency or Dreamwalking and had a mentor to guide you. What had happened to him, Harry now knew, had been nothing so defined and all the more dangerous for it.

At best, it had been _accidental_ mind magic from four different parties in one head.

At worst, well.

That he'd survived at all… the odds against it had to be astronomical. If it hadn't been for his magic that strengthened mind and body, for The Magic that had done the hard work, for Voldemort's bit to take the offensive defence…

Yet here he lay, alive, and slowly healing as Ra's body did it's job. A parasite, the Goa'uld might be, but at least it was a beneficial one. To live, Ra fed from Harry's energy, absorbing chemicals and proteins in his blood and brain, sustained by the tiny electrical current in his flesh – and excreting waste like any other being.

The human body was unique in that Ra's waste – amino acids, proteins, steroids, and other chemicals Harry had no name for - only made it better, more efficient and stronger.

After _that_ pleasant thought, Harry's stomach rolled over yet again, and he had to mentally recite Gamps Law of Elemental Transfiguration, as well as both the principle and secondary exceptions, until he felt he could cope.

Alien shit inside him, useful, yeah, maybe, but it was still going to take a while to adjust.

Thinking of adjustment – Harry traced a cautious path around his throat, and felt nothing. No lump, bump, scar or rash to indicate the enormity of what had happened to him. He shoved a hand down the back of his shirt too, squirming awkwardly against the floor, but his spine felt clear too.

That was a good thing, probably. Harry didn't really know _what_ to think, but until he'd sorted it out, he didn't want anyone _else_ to know either and a suspicious snake-like lump on his back would have attracted precisely the wrong sort of attention.

The image of Ra squirming under his skin was too disturbing. Seeking immediate distraction, Harry looked about.

He was still in the hut by the sea. He did not know why he found that so surprising, of course his body had not moved, and yet he felt so different it was as if ten thousand years had passed.

It was still night, the storm still raged, and Dudley still snored.

Harry crawled over, already feeling steadier, and checked Dudley's watch. Ten forty two. At least he hadn't missed his birthday. Since he was already over there, Harry stole one of Dudley's blankets, and wrapped it about his shoulders, shivering. OK, maybe that had been too much, too soon. He inched over to the corner, and wedged himself in tight against the wall, pulling the blanket over his legs. That felt better. It was good to have something solid at his back to lean against, and there was a cooling draft through a crack in somewhere that eased his fever.

Right then. No excuses left to him, Harry had to think.

"I have magic and an alien empire."

Oddly enough, whispering the words aloud didn't seem to help. The sheer scale of his problem was almost too much for his not-really-eleven year old mind to handle.

What was he supposed to do? What should he do? What did _anyone_ do when they inherited a prominent place in a secret sub-society of their own world and a galactic empire stretching untold light years across with accompanying godhood?

Vaguely, Harry wondered if he had to do anything at all. No one _knew_ that he had these things. No one would care if he just… ignored it. Surely. And yet… Harry doubted he _could_ just ignore it all. He didn't exist in a vacuum after all.

Besides, why should he?

He had _magic._ Of course he had to learn how to use it! Magic was incredible, and powerful and worthy of Ra! Oh how Apophis would _cower_ in the face of true godhood.

Harry paused, went over that thought again and gave a mental shrug. Ra's influence it may be, but the logic held true. The minute he hit sixteen, the Dursley's were going to kick him out. His career options were going to be extremely limited at that point without the magical training that made survival a mere flick of the wand.

It was his inheritance too, a tiny part of Harry noted excitedly. Harry _owed_ it to all of his ancestors to learn about the gift they'd passed down over the centuries through every hardship known to man. His family had been _magical._ He couldn't walk away from that.

Harry screwed his eyes shut and dragged up Voldemort's memories for information, letting them wash over him as he searched. He was the rock, his mind the ocean. The rock didn't care for the push and pull of the waves. He was solid, anchored and –

Ah, there it was.

Hogwarts was compulsory. That was what all those letters were about. Magic needed careful training to be useful and to be safe. It wouldn't exactly kill him if he didn't go to Hogwarts, but every magical child needed to be accounted for. Even a muggleborn would get a cursory search if their letters didn't get to them, but he was the last Potter, according to Voldemort.

That meant people would look for him, if only to try swindling him out of an inheritance, for Merlin's sake he was as unprotected as a Muggleborn.

There was a certain bitterness to the memories. It left a sour taste in his mouth. Harry dug deeper and –

-Dumbledore.

Dumbledore _liked_ orphans, Harry knew. He _really_ liked them when they were rich and from prominent families – unless they could speak to snakes.

Voldemort knew a great deal about the old wizard, Harry realised, particularly when it came to his private army, this Order and –

-Harry recognised them.

The tiny man in the purple top hat who bowed to him once in a shop: Dedalus Diggle. The wild-looking old woman dressed all in green that had waved merrily at him: Pomona Sprout, which meant the bald man in the long purple coat, was also Dumbledore's somehow. As was Mrs Figg.

It was a good job he was already sitting down, because the revelations made him feel adrift.

Harry had been watched his entire life, and he hadn't known it. He felt… dirty, violated, and then… angry.

How dare they. Who did they think they were? To spy upon _him,_ their natural lord and master, why he'd –

-do nothing.

Harry gritted his teeth as Ra howled like a mad man in the back of his mind, but if there was one thing Voldemort had learned at Hogwarts, it was the value of discretion, and, belatedly, a good first impression.

Yes, strangers had spied on him. Yes, they were all and one Dumbledore's people. That wasn't a reason for Harry to go wild, it was a reason to be very fucking cautious. He _knew_ that Dumbledore planned long term, and that spider did nothing without reason. So, _why had he done it?_

The answer came instantly – the prophecy.

That was actually, a pretty good reason, Harry admitted grudgingly. Dumbledore was nothing if not the consummate politician, and if Harry had been in power, he'd have watched the kid who 'vanquished' the Dark Lord too, and that was assuming that _Albus_ fucking _Dumbledore_ had only the one motive.

It completely complicated matters for Harry, naturally. Dumbledore had always been good at that - however unwittingly.

The last Potter could get his OWLs or NEWTs, and go 'travelling' without much of a fuss. That was traditional enough, but if Dumbledore had sent his _personal_ operatives to spy on him - that implied a whole lot more attention than Harry was comfortable with.

One decent Legilimency attack, one well-aimed _Obliviate_ and it was bye-bye God-Emperor, hello neglected orphan.

Speaking of God-Emperor, Harry turned his attention to thoughts of space and plundered Ra's memories.

Five to seven years away from the empire and he wouldn't _have_ an empire to return to. It was only a matter of what would fell it first; Goa'uld raiding once his 'death' filtered it's way across the galaxy, or internal catastrophe.

Only fear of Ra kept the other Goa'uld somewhat unified even if they did raid, spy and assassinate one another to show their affection. Without Ra, they'd swiftly devolve into infighting and then they'd be useless when Asgard pressed the advantage or Anubis crept back from banishment again.

Even if the other Goa'uld remained ignorant for a year or so – and news could travel very slowly in space – Ra's empire would collapse. The logistics of maintaining a space empire were not for the faint hearted. Ra could trust only so many of his Jaffa and his regular servants with enough knowledge of technology to pilot their own ships. Soon, the supply lines would fail, and the slaves on the mines, the farms, the research bases, and the scavenging teams – they'd starve, riot, or perish in a natural disaster he wasn't there to prevent.

To say nothing of his armies.

It was _galling_ to gain an empire and lose it on the same night – and yet Harry didn't see a way out. He was _planet bound._ Harry had no doubt he could acquire a rocket or shuttle after several years of magical training under his belt, but Earth's technology was infantile. He'd never make it to his Throne World – Aten -alive.

Enchantments were an option – with the right spells, perhaps he could improve a shuttle to be durable enough, but it was going to be hard enough to convince his Jaffa and his priestesses that he was Ra in this new body without turning up alone and in rags.

Even if Harry practiced until his wand splintered – he couldn't get to that skill level any time soon and just a two-year delay would cause trouble.

He needed speed, exactitude, and routine.

He needed a Chappa'ai.

 _Stargate,_ Harry mentally translated. He was having enough trouble thinking in English without doing the linguistic equivalent of stabbing himself in the foot with foreign words.

Earth had a Stargate, though, didn't it? Harry realised, perking up.

Ra had brought it here himself. Harry pieced a few more memories together. Ra didn't exactly think like a human thought, and whilst navigating the memory clusters was easier after Harry's very human-orientated reorganisation, it was by no means logical.

The Americans must have the Gate. Ra wouldn't have cared to note the difference, but Harry knew an American accent when he heard it. The men who had managed to stop Ra – they'd been American military of some sort.

International travel was a matter of a minute, for a wizard.

If Harry could just relearn the Disillusionment Charm… the muggles would venture out again, they were muggles, and now they had the bit between their teeth they couldn't resist… he could just follow along on their next 'adventure' and wait for them to leave the area, leaving him alone with a Stargate.

True revenge for the indignity of his 'defeat' for the audacity in trying to kill their _god,_ not to mention their sheer arrogance in presuming to travel the stars, would have to wait for a more opportune moment.

There would be speeches, and maybe a good old-fashioned pit of spikes. Possibly a dragon too, now that Harry thought about it, if not ritual sacrifice.

Voldemort knew a good bit about how useful a muggle could be when you rendered them down into parts. The heart of an enemy, bathed in the tears of a scorned bride, and eaten raw did wonders for one's complexion.

Feeling a great deal more confident, Harry continued to plot.

#

BOOM BOOM BOOM.

Harry sprung upright at the shack-shaking racket, his heart pounding. He didn't know how long he'd been thinking, but it had been long enough for Ra to heal him fully. He felt _incredible._ A thousand tiny pains he'd grown used to over the years were just plain gone, and the relief was so intense as to be euphoric.

Whatever monster was coming, Harry could face it with a new and wonderful sense of confidence.

Harry was _so_ glad that Ra had tried – and failed - to take him for a host. He'd never even been _average_ before, and now Ra had made him powerful, made him strong.

Vernon crashed through the bedroom door – a rifle held in his shaky grip.

"Who's there?" Vernon shouted, moustache quivering. "I warn you – I'm armed!"

Harry nodded approvingly. He had no weapons, but Vernon would make an excellent distraction, not to mention doubling as a very effective human shield. Harry could stand almost anywhere within the hut and be shielded by that bulwark of fat.

SMASH! The door was knocked clean off it's hinges and an enormous man walked through, picking the entire door up and pushing it back into place behind him.

Rubeus Hagrid; Harry recognised him instantly.

With that, acknowledgement came a burst of memory, a sharp flash of understanding that sent Harry reeling for the foreignness of it. _(Rubeus Hagrid: Half giant; genetically dumb and violent; expelled to cover the Chamber fiasco but fully deserving of it for bringing a man-eating Acromantula into the school; employed as an apprentice groundskeeper on Dumbledore's influence.)_

A brilliant move on Dumbledore's part, now that Harry thought about it, free of Voldemort's clouding bitterness.

Hagrid had been a vulnerable orphan, useful for his strength, idiocy and link to the giants. Hagrid had spent his formative years being teased by his peers before effectively becoming a servant to them, keeping him emotionally vulnerable. By now, he had had a lifetime where every relief in his pitiful life came from Dumbledore's hand.

The man knew how to keep his pets loyal and his hands clean, Harry thought grimly, and his preference for orphans was once again clear; they made the best recruits.

 _(What would have happened to me, if I hadn't mentioned the snakes? Alone, isolated, vulnerable and so very very clever. Would I too have been groomed to respect him? Would I have known him for dangerous at eleven, if he hadn't set fire to my clothes?)_

"An' here's Harry. Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby. Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh've got yer mum's eyes."

Harry felt rather confused as the rush of adrenaline and _nownownow_ faded and his mind was fully in the present once more. Hagrid had just broken down the door in an impressive display of violence in the middle of the night, turned a rifle into a pretzel and his goal appeared to be Harry himself. Dumbledore's hand was plain, but what –

Oh for Merlin's sake.

Hagrid was his magical liaison? _Hagrid?_

 _#_

A/N - If you can spot three things I've deliberately done differently from the cliches, I'll answer one spoilery question about the plot or give you a sneak preview of the next chapter :)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N - Lots of set up. Pay attention for later :)

He supposed it was possible that Dumbledore had finally gone off the deep end; ten years could change anyone, even someone as hidebound as Dumbledore. But even insanity had to have limits, surely?

Whilst neither the Ministry nor Hogwarts had explicit rules for the introduction of muggleborns to magic – it really wasn't much of a priority for them – there were certain expectations a sane mind would appreciate. Codifying them had been on Voldemort's to-do list, once he was in power.

Introducing magic to muggles was such a risky business. There could be a whole host of problems, religion, abuse, negligence, poverty, or distance that interfered with contacting a new witch or wizard, not to mention the sheer disbelief of it all, the lack of an owl, _and_ assuming the parents hadn't just abandoned their freaky offspring after the first few accidents.

That had been the list back in the '50's. Harry had no doubt that if he put his mind to it he'd muster up a few more pitfalls.

Hogwarts should send someone _tactful_ who could use magic if things went wrong, someone personable to relate to, someone familiar with the muggle world, smart enough to be able to navigate a great many social or cultural issues, to put muggles at ease and spot any signs of trouble further down the road.

Hagrid… was not such a person, or even a wizard for that matter.

Not only was he a half-giant and thus rather dim and prone to violence - as demonstrated within the first minute of their introduction- but he had absolutely no experience of dealing with the muggle world _and_ he'd been expelled – he couldn't use magic; the very anti-thesis of a normal call out.

It was suspicious by its stupidity. Dumbledore was nothing if not intelligent, so this couldn't be as idiotic a move as it looked.

Harry floundered about for a cunning plan that would allow him to outwit the Great Spider sitting fat in the midst of a thousand webs that had had at least a decade to grow sticky, uncontested.

He failed.

He couldn't see a single strand of white thread, let alone the dance he'd need to dance to evade them. He didn't have time to _think._

Harry went for the tried and true; act stupid.

Giants were magically resistant, and that thankfully included Legilimency, so there was that. Whatever information Dumbledore wanted to gain here, he'd have to go by Hagrid's verbal report alone, and acting was one of Voldemort's foremost skills. Harry was no stranger to subterfuge himself, and at least Ra had a whole lot of theatrical experience to contribute if no actual talent.

Together, they'd easily fool Hagrid.

"Who are you?" Harry injected his voice with a faint quaver – just a touch of fearful awe for verisimilitude.

The giant chuckled. "True, I haven't introduced myself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

"What about that tea then, eh?" he said, rubbing his hands together. "I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind."

Dazed, Harry watched in silence as the _alcoholic_ half-giant – brilliant example there - squashed the couch with his weight and set about emptying his pockets of a whole host of rubbish until he had a fire going in the fireplace, which still gave off a slight smell of burnt plastic, and had sausages cooking.

"Yeh'll know all about Hogwarts o'course." Hagrid said conversationally, poking the fire with his umbrella.

"Er – no."

He felt like a fat and juicy fly and hated it. Dumbledore didn't even _know_ Harry was playing the game and he was still winning it.

 **"** Did yeh never wonder where yer parents learnt it all?"

"All what?" Harry asked vaguely, wondering how much of the conversation he'd missed whilst struggling to see Dumbledore's invisible web. Morgana's wand, he'd had less than an hour to come to terms with his new …existence, property, status and _already_ Dumbledore had appeared to cock things up, ostensibly entirely by accident.

It beggared belief. At this rate, Harry was inclined to believe some of the more paranoid theories Voldemort had brooded over during the long nights of the war. Kendra Dumbledore _had_ been a mudblood after all. Who knew where the spark of magic had originally come from? Cassandra Trelawney had frequently vanished for years at a time, and the time periods would match up…

"ALL WHAT?" Hagrid repeated in a thundering voice, startling Harry out of his brooding. It was no act to stare up at the giant with bewilderment as he raged.

It devolved rapidly.

Harry learnt that, according to Hagrid, his parents were famous, _he,_ was famous, Dumbledore had left a letter for him, which the Dursley's had withheld, when he'd _personally_ dropped him off, and that Hagrid had been there on the night in question.

Oh yes, and he really was a wizard - just in case he'd had any doubts remaining.

#

It was fortunate that Hagrid's snores kept Harry awake all night; he had too much to think about to risk sleep. Hagrid had said more than he realised, as usual, and those nuggets had to be teased out, and analysed for maximum benefit.

Tomorrow, he'd be in Diagon Alley, on full display, and Harry needed a strategy for how he was going to deal with the next seven years before he got there. No more improvisation allowed.

First impressions were _everything_.

He despaired over the lack of information, but Hagrid's was all he had to work with until he could set up a decent network of minions and spies.

Ra, Harry knew, was useless at subterfuge, but Voldemort had had – still had?- it in spades. If he could tap into the old network – if it was still secure, still reliable…they still feared His name, it had to mean _something…_

Point One; Harry decided, was the issue of legal guardianship. There was no point faffing about with politics if he didn't know where he stood. It was, thankfully, a topic Voldemort knew a lot about. So, Harry knew with absolute certainty that Vernon and Petunia were his guardians according to the magical world.

Otherwise, he wouldn't be living with them. Wizards didn't bother with complex family arrangements. Magic solved a great many problems that would have required them.

Except, Vernon had been quite vociferous that Harry would not – absolutely would not – be going to Hogwarts, and Hagrid had ignored that entirely.

Harry wasn't complaining, he _needed_ to go to Hogwarts, but it did mean that his legal status was probably equivalent to a Muggleborn's.

I.e. he was entirely on his own.

There were the usual age limits for areas of magic that required advanced study and whatnot, but when it came to the rest – owning property, entering contracts, criminal prosecution, he was it. Muggles couldn't see most of their world. Muggles couldn't interact with it. Muggles couldn't be bound by magical contract. They were non-entities as far as wizarding law went.

So whilst a Muggleborn's parents assumed they had full rights over their child – in reality, they couldn't use them, and thus it was the child that actually had the authority to make decisions and would bear the consequences.

So if Harry wanted to go to Hogwarts – he was going.

It was one of the little realities of wizarding law that Muggleborns could either take advantage of, or be taken advantage of by.

The real question was why Dumbledore had allowed it and no matter how Harry contorted his thoughts, he couldn't see the plan.

That was Point Two. Hagrid had brought Harry to the Dursley's, on Dumbledore's orders. Dumbledore _wanted_ him raised Muggle.

Would it not make more sense to have Harry raised in a Dumbledore-friendly family? So that he be fed respect, trust and obedience for the wizard alongside his milk?

Of course, with no magical adult to shield him, Harry was uniquely vulnerable to exploitation. But again, if that were the point, why not brainwash him from an early age? Few eleven year olds would refuse to sign something their guardian told them to.

His thoughts circled back around to 'Dumbledore's orders'. Perhaps he was looking at this from the wrong angle.

Dumbledore had ruled uncontested as the shadow-king of magic for the last ten years. Voldemort had been his last competent opponent. The hard truth was that without Voldemort, Dumbledore won, there was just no one else left who could compete on that level. Magic was might and all that.

So, whatever his plan for the original Harry James Potter, Dumbledore had succeeded.

Without Ra, without Voldemort, what would Harry Potter have been?

Young was Harry's first thought, along with everything that implied. Fairly innocent as such things are measured, a little too trusting, a little neglected, and as such eager to please and eager to fit in. Ignorant, if Harry wanted to be mean about it. A kid, basically.

His thoughts floundered again, struggling to connect that point to another.

Dumbledore had arranged his entire childhood, and had spied upon it, so if he'd wanted anything different, he'd had ample opportunity to intervene.

Harry let out a long slow breath through his teeth as realisation sparked.

That was the _point_ , wasn't it? What better way to keep the Vanquisher of Voldemort humble than to raise him Muggle? That would offset the fame Hagrid spoke of. What better way to set the truly powerful Houses against him? To ensure he could never wield real influence? To never become a threat to the Legend of Dumbledore?

Oh, but Dumbledore was _insidiously_ good.

Didn't that suddenly explain 'Dumbledore told me there might be trouble getting' hold of yeh,' and 'How much yeh didn't know.'

If he'd been raised a wizard… Harry would have had parental figures whose opinions he prioritised, a support network, childhood friends, and his guardians would have been idiots not to capitalise on his fame. The possibilities were numerous – which was _exactly_ the sort of thing Dumbledore despised: Unpredictability.

Instead, Harry Potter had been raised Muggle, by Muggles who cared very little for him, a sentiment that Harry would naturally have returned. No support network there – and he'd be going straight into Hogwarts, Dumbledore's fiefdom. Every scrap of knowledge he learned would come from Dumbledore's hands, every friend he made would be under Dumbledore's eye, every touch, every kiss and every enemy all laid nauseatingly bare before that man.

In a way, it was a relief.

Harry had half-suspected to find this body bound up with enchantments, twisted unnaturally this way and that – too useful to kill, too much of a wild card for Dumbledore to let him roam free.

He should have known better. Dumbledore was subtler than that. He didn't _need_ to control him magically when he could mould his formative years to such an excruciating degree. Spells could be found, broken and the mere hint of them would have shattered anything he'd tried to build. No, it was far more _Dumbledore_ to arrange things this way. A rogue element bound by chains of his own making and utterly invisible to magic.

Acting stupid was quite literally the best choice Harry could have made. It was an infuriating reminder of how thing the tightrope he walked was. He lacked the power, the status, and the resources to challenge Dumbledore. Survival lay in passing beneath his notice.

Or it would – but it was impossible. He already had Dumbledore's attention, all because of Voldemort.

That was Point Three.

The _other_ Voldemort. Main bit? Big V? Harry smirked to think of the expression Voldemort would make on hearing _that_ nickname and instantly decided to use it when they eventually met.

And yes, Harry knew they'd meet one day. It was inevitable. Hagrid could talk about disappearing, and being too weak to carry on – but Harry _knew_ Voldemort.

Voldemort was relentless. Powerful, insane, charismatic too, but it was the drive, the absolute focus that was the true threat.

Harry had _humiliated_ such a wizard by not dying.

The only, _only,_ way for Voldemort to regain his honour – his terrifying legend – would be to kill Harry, preferably publically, and in a way so horrific they'd never speak his name again.

Picturing it all too easily, painted with real memories ripped straight from Voldemort's own mind, Harry was truly afraid, right down to his bones. He alone understood the true awfulness of what a wizard like Voldemort was capable of – and all of that cold brilliance would be fixated on him. It was petrifying, as if he'd been turned to stone, too scared to _move._

And yet… well, it had been ten years already, hadn't it, and Voldemort remained a spectre. He let out the breath he'd been holding, feeling his heartbeat slow to something more human.

Perhaps something had gone wrong with the horcruxes? And, well, even if Voldemort _did_ return in some far distant future – Harry only needed seven years; five at the minimum to tie up his magical affairs and leave the planet, if worse came to worse.

After that, he could just drop a rock on the place from orbit and call it done, couldn't he?

Yes, exactly. There was no need to chop the leaves before the potion was fired.

Voldemort only mattered in the immediate sense by the affect he'd had on the wizarding world.

Hagrid had told him the tale, such as it was, and heavily biased but that's what you got for losing the war – the victors get to write history.

It hadn't been a real war – at least not to Harry's mind. Real wars were fought with spaceships, with entire armies of loyal Jaffa and weapons of immense power, where millions could die for a minor victory and it was no great loss.

Heck, entire planets could be wiped out and he'd still call it a riot not a war.

Voldemort's little tiff with Dumbledore was nothing in comparison, and indeed, it had been fought directly between the two of them with a few loyal arms men on either side, with barely any attention paid to the local government except as a point of contention.

Dumbledore had won. The status quo thus preserved, Harry would be walking into a world little changed from what Voldemort remembered. His followers would have faced a few penalties, sacrificed a few scapegoats to soothe the masses, a few more nonsensical laws about so-called Dark Magic and then it was back to business as usual.

Just what the wizarding world liked best.

What Harry had to concern himself with was what 'Harry Potter's' involvement in the whole mess had done. This fame Hagrid spoke of – could he use it to offset the muggle heritage? Presumably, people now knew of the Prophecy that had started the whole mess, and Harry would finally learn the whole thing. _(Should have gotten the full version before attacking, but Peter had been right_ there _, and time was passing, and couldn't afford to waste this chance, who knew when they'd switch to a new safehouse…he had to strike now and then only one left.)_

The prophecy of course, brought him to Point Four, and Dumbledore.

It was clear to Harry that Dumbledore must have a use for Harry Potter. Why bother with all of this if his effort was just going to go to waste? That would be stupid – and Dumbledore wasn't in the habit of wasting resources.

The goal would be political – there was nothing else when it came to Dumbledore. The man had been in politics for sixty years by now, and one did not get to his level by being _nice_ or slow on the draw.

'Every kid in our world knows his name!' Hagrid had said, and Harry was sure that had something to do with it. If true, perhaps Dumbledore wanted to use him to sway the younger crowd somehow. Except, no, Dumbledore had seven years of schooling to sway every child. He didn't need Harry for that.

Perhaps he was to be some sort of symbol?

Dumbledore was already a symbol. Admittedly, Harry might be a bit more recent but even then, he couldn't compare to the weight of Dumbledore's accomplishments.

Well, Harry supposed he had seven years to figure it out. Eugh. He did _not_ like the idea. Seven years under Dumbledore's eye. Seven years of _acting_ of compromising – it was beneath his dignity to lower himself and –

-Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.

It was beneath _Voldemort's_ dignity, beneath _Ra's_ dignity – not his. Harry couldn't afford to be that arrogant. He'd never been allowed the pride to defend in the first place. He was fully capable of compromising a little here and there until he discovered Dumbledore's ambitions.

After that, he'd decide what he was prepared to sacrifice to remain free.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N -Unedited, but triple length. Enjoy!

#

Harry threw off the enormous coat when he heard the tapping of an owl at the window. He rushed to let it in before the creature woke Hagrid, and then had to dive back to the coat to rummage for money as the owl started to pester the half-giant into consciousness.

The Knuts felt odd to his hand. He knew what they were of course, heck, he'd seen them _thousands_ of times, but this was still his first time holding one and the colour, the size, the weight, and the shape of it all just felt odd. He'd never been abroad, and these weren't pounds and pence. He shrugged off the strange feeling of déjà vu and concentrated on the paper.

The Prophet might be a Ministry-funded pile of dragon dung when it came to political news, but the rest was usually pretty accurate. The Ministry hobbled along as it ever had, Harry surmised after scanning it from cover to cover, Goblins remained thoroughly unpleasant, and there was a double page spread on the Boy-Who-Lived and rampant speculation about when he'd be spotted in Diagon Alley.

Fame, huh? Interesting.

He folded the paper back up thoughtfully, leaving it at Hagrid's side like a good little owl. The man wouldn't think to question that he hadn't paid.

Money.

Harry frowned in the early morning silence. That was something else to consider, wasn't it?

He had no idea of the state of his finances. Presumably, he'd inherited the bulk of the Potter's estate as their son but he had no idea how to access it or how much it contained, and the Goblins wouldn't be any help – nasty spiteful creatures. It was a damned shame Voldemort hadn't bothered to wipe them out when he had the chance.

It rankled, but perhaps he ought to ask Hagrid. There'd been no mention of the Orphan Vault yet – if it still existed – but if Hagrid was escorting him to Diagon Alley, they'd have to talk money at some point, and Harry wanted to know as much as possible before he had to confront the Goblins.

Those tunnel rats were far too good at sensing weakness. Harry couldn't think of a worst idea than to go up to one and admit to knowing nothing about what he legally owned.

Had Lily or James written a will? Harry had no idea. They'd been young when they died, and magical inheritances being what they were, a pureblood would have little use of one.

Actually, Harry realised, it was probably better for him if they hadn't. If the laws on intestacy hadn't changed, he was the only possible beneficiary, family being scarce for both of his parents.

So unless the Ministry had stuck their noses in, and made a power grab, Harry could afford Hogwarts. Or he _would_ be able to, when he was seventeen.

Maybe he could get a loan in the meantime.

 _(Ah, Mr Riddle, the tunnel rat in a suit smarmed. Congratulations on graduating Hogwarts, with the completion of your education, and the attainment of legal age, the loan you took out with Gringotts Bank is now due. He gave the young man a nasty smirk. With interest.)_

Just not from Gringotts, Harry decided, feeling a little dizzy from the memory. Seven hundred per cent interest? Maximum repayment term of three years? Merlin's balls.

Perhaps the Potters had paid for his Hogwarts tuition upfront? It was the pureblood thing to do – to pay Hogwarts forward as a sign that their child was _not_ a squib, thank you very much. Look, we're so confident we've even paid the bill, but James Potter hadn't been a traditional pureblood by Tom's memories.

Even if he had, the war had been tough on many of the old families. It might be that the Potter's had no business' left standing to manage and their property might have been razed to the ground, their fiefdoms dissolved to nothing in the Ministry's ever-grasping hands.

No matter the what if's and maybes, the point was Harry had to rustle up seven hundred galleons a year, and he had no idea how he was going to do it.

It was irritating.

Ra had a smorgasbord of resources. They were just utterly inaccessible to Harry, and even if Harry could somehow get some of Ra's gold – the least suspicious of his galactic assets – to Gringotts, the Goblins would charge a fortune to exchange it which wouldn't be worth the loss in value. He supposed he might be able to take small chunks to the muggle world, and exchange muggle currency for Galleons, but the amounts it would take would be unfeasible, and the exchange rate was still shit.

Voldemort had a pile of Galleons already prepared of course, in multiple Gringotts vaults, under a range of different identities. Which would be _perfect_ if Harry could get to them, and he just couldn't; he'd fail the identity tests at the first hurdle, and he wouldn't have the necessary magical finesse to fake it for years. His magic was as clumsy as an elephant in the ballet where he needed the paintbrush of Van Gogh.

This was humiliating.

He was wealthy; Voldemort was wealthy; Ra was _extremely_ wealthy, but despite their combined resources, he couldn't even afford a wand right now.

Then again, Harry had never had two pennies to rub together so why was he surprised?

That left Voldemort's assets _outside_ of Gringotts and whatever Harry could scrounge out of Hogwarts itself.

 _(Tom peered closer at the glittering eyes of the snakes. The Chamber had been a disappointment apart from the Basilisk – but was that a real emerald? He frowned and took a step closer, brushing his hand over it. No magic, so it wasn't powering the wards that kept this place hidden.)_

With a smirk, Harry decided that he'd be just fine.

#

Hagrid's snores abruptly ceased, and Harry threw himself back down and under the coat, shuffling about as if he was just waking up too, with a mighty yawn, a good stretch and a wide grin. Magic was real! How excited was he! Yes Yes yes, let's go!

They ate a breakfast of cold sausages and birthday cake, and Hagrid tried to explain what they were going to do today, but Harry kept intervening to ask questions; just like an overly-excitable child should.

First, "Wizards have _banks?"_

And then, "Goblins?"

Three minutes into his character, and Harry was internally flinching with shame.

Merlin what would people _think?_ He was basically begging for some pureblood to trick him into acting like an idiot at _best. (Such a_ Mudblood _, Riddle, the blond boy- what sort of foreign name was Abraxas anyway? - sneered. For Morgana's sake pick up a book and stop talking to me would you? I don't want anyone to think I actually want to be here.)_

Fetching Harry bloody Potter was such an important errand that Dumbledore had Hagrid multitasking was it? Harry twitched – but restrained the impulse to ask questions. He'd find out at Gringotts what was so important. This just reeked of another of Dumbledore's schemes.

Harry bit his lip and ignored it. The boat looked flimsy, and had a lot of water in the bottom from the storm. He had to pay attention; Hagrid _was_ a big fellow. Drowning was not unlikely.

In fact…

"How did you get here?"

"Flew."

" _Flew?"_

"Yeah – but we'll go back in this. Not s'pposed ter use magic now I've got yeh."

Hagrid started to read the paper, which spared Harry the necessity of maintaining conversation. Dumbledore had probably given Hagrid permission to use magic – not that he actually _had_ that authority but legality meant nothing in the face of power – and thus had probably given the order of _not_ using it with Harry too.

That was another clue towards deciphering Dumbledore's plans. It wasn't 'don't use magic because you're crap at it Hagrid and will expose us all to the muggles,' it was 'don't use magic with Harry'.

Curious.

#

The rest of the journey passed pleasantly enough although with every mistake Hagrid made in the muggle world, Harry grew increasingly paranoid that the CCTV cameras were deliberately following their progress down the street.

"This is it," said Hagrid, coming to a halt, "the Leaky Cauldron. It's a famous place."

The pub was grubby, and looked to be falling apart at the seams. Voldemort had never understood why something so grim was allowed to be the main entrance to somewhere as magical as Diagon Alley – until he'd realised that _only_ muggles and muggleborn really used this as a gateway. Everybody else could Apparate or Floo – and then it had made much more sense. _Famous_ wasn't the word Harry would use, though.

"The usual, Hagrid?" asked the barkeeper. Harry noted silently that all of the regulars seemed to know the giant rather well. Alcohol didn't have any taboo in the wizarding world – how could it when a first year charm or potion could be a thousand times more intoxicating – but it didn't change the fact that Hagrid was looking increasingly like an alcoholic.

If he'd been the average muggleborn – with the average parents – there could have been a problem.

Harry just felt pity for him, and disgust. At least a proper wizard would have a _real_ addiction. Like, say, potions, or a Cheering Charm. Alcohol was a squib's solution to a shit life.

"Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business."

When Hagrid clapped Harry on the shoulder, Harry had to wonder if drawing attention to him was deliberate. He guessed that it _was_ when Hagrid beamed as the other witches and wizards came over to him in a rush, desperate apparently to shake his hand.

Hagrid really did crave positive attention. Some of his fame would reflect back on the half-giant when he came back to the pub. He'd probably get a few free drinks out of it too.

Automatically, Harry took mental notes of this – Hagrid might come in useful in the future – but most of his attention was on names and faces.

Networking was _vital._

Ra had never had to do it – he'd been born to power, but Tom had scraped and scraped for every morsel of influence he'd ever had.

Both knew an opportunity when it was sprung on them like this, so Harry affected a bemused but polite smile, and got to work.

"Doris Crockford, Mr Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

Crockford. A Crockford owned one of the few magical international trading companies, didn't they? He'd start a correspondence somehow.

"Delighted Mr Potter! Just can't tell you. Diggle's the name, Dedalus Diggle."

"I remember you," Harry smiled pleasantly. This man was one of the spies of his childhood. He had done nothing to help Harry when Harry was weakest. He was part of the Order and held a few seats in the Wizengamot. "You bowed to me once in a shop."

Whilst Dedalus crowed about being remembered and he shook Dorris Crockford's hand another dozen times, a pale man approached in an extraordinary purple turban.

If this stuttering excuse of a wizard was the Defence professor, Harry knew his – Voldemort's – Curse was in full effect. At least this Quirrell would only be about for a year. Hopefully, the Curse killed him, but Harry would take whatever he got.

#

On the way through Diagon Alley, Harry couldn't help but stare. Sure, he _remembered_ seeing it all before – but it was the difference between seeing it on TV and in real life. It was so much _more._ Harry wanted to sprint down the street and buy everything and dance too while he was at it. He was still a child after all, and there was magic in the air.

The tingle of magic sliding away from his mind made Harry focus. Who was – oh, of course. The Gringotts Curse. Harry read the poem above the door, just like every other pool fool who walked past it did. Unfortunately for the Goblins, Harry was already an accomplished Occlumens and the Curse failed to weave itself into Harry's mind.

Gringotts was _not_ as impenetrable as the Goblins wanted Wizards to think. The sign and the poem, both cast in metal and stone – the goblin's preferred arena - actually comprised a magical Curse. It was mild as curses went, but it was a real Curse, not a hex or a jinx, and you always had to be cautious around the true ones.

This one was memory-based. Anyone who read it was 'cursed' to wholly and truly _believe_ that Gringotts was a fortress to be feared and respected. Since everybody visited the bank in childhood at least once – the goblins managed to target most of the population in their vulnerable childhood, and the curse grew as they did, as natural as breathing.

Most people simply never considered robbing the place, even the few who learned Occlumency after the initial curse rarely found and expelled it and thus it's existence remained almost a complete secret. As for the few wizards in the know? Well they hardly _wanted_ their vault to be robbed now did they? And besides, once you were at that level, you had other things to worry about.

It was admirably efficient, and one of the goblin's greatest achievements in their eternal war.

Gringotts was a bank to wizards, but to the Goblins, it was one of their last fortresses. If they could curse the wizards when they were too young to defend themselves… of course they would.

The fact was, goblins hated wizards exactly as much as they needed them, which really only made them madder.

Walking through the doors, Harry had to acknowledge the Goblins were right to curse whoever they could reach. This place would not be all that difficult to rob otherwise.

A good chunk of power, a strategy, timing, a dash of luck…

A thought for another time. The goblins hadn't changed a thing from what Voldemort remembered, Harry saw as he looked about. They still appeared to be both militaristic and communist. Every goblin belonged to a squad rather than a family, and everything belonged to the community.

When Harry returned his attention to Hagrid he nearly choked on air.

Hagrid had his key.

When the goblin moved to return it, Harry lunged, hoping the movement looked natural. _Hagrid_ had had his key. _Dumbledore_ had had his key.

That shouldn't have been possible.

When James and Lily had died, their magic died. Their keys would have become just metal, leaving Harry to present himself to the goblins to match his blood to theirs and be issued a new key. If he never did - it was but one more victory for the goblins.

Voldemort had never been too interested in the goblin's own magic, but he'd known it had some reliance on the deep earth and noble metals, and was the reason the Goblins had decided to run a bank with the gold the noble families had entrusted to them. As such, the Goblins _really_ didn't like that gold being taken away even by its rightful owner. They had odd notions about possession and inheritance too.

New keys were one of the _oh_ so numerous ways the goblins made life difficult for wizards.

The fact that _Dumbledore_ had one was alarming. At some point, Dumbledore must have taken a blood sample from Harry and somehow had a key forged in his name. Lots could be done with blood – and Harry knew better than to believe that Dumbledore had the moral integrity not to use it for worse purposes that stealing money from an orphan.

Instead of imagining everything Voldemort would have done with a sample of Dumbledore's blood - which was just as disturbing - Harry used Ra's grasp of physics to try and calculate how fast they were going on the carts. The vaults were hundred of miles below London, although Harry wasn't sure how far, but it had to be at least two hundred miles – probably more. Yet they'd reached the earliest level within a few minutes perhaps as many as five. That had to be – what? – Forty miles in a minute? Two thousand four hundred miles an hour?

That was much, much, faster than a plane. Wizards could teleport of course, but transporting large amounts of goods took more effort.

Working out the secrets of the enchantment would be incredibly profitable for a land-based transport. Particularly on some of his larger worlds, it would increase efficiency of his Naquadah mines that were located a great distance from the Stargate. Not to mention other uses that would appear in time.

The sight of a pile of galleons was deeply reassuring. Potter must have followed this tradition at least, giving his heir a substantial trust of money to manage in preparation for later responsibilities. That gave him hope that Potter would have followed other traditions and paid for Hogwarts already.

He really didn't need the added stress.

At the back of the vault, helpfully under a pile of gold was a ledger. Harry was relieved to see it was still there, he'd half expected it to be missing due to the goblins or Dumbledore. Either one would have made his life difficult.

Pretending to explore – Harry sidled over and slipped the ledger under his shirt when Hagrid was looking in the other direction. If Dumbledore had overlooked this ledger – no need for Hagrid to remind him.

Then he looked at his money.

How much should he take? Gringotts was the only bank, and didn't give interest, but they did frown on too large a withdrawal. Harry didn't need to give the goblins any consideration, but he had no illusions that Dumbledore had some finger in Gringotts, not if he could get a new key. If he took out too much gold, Dumbledore would want to know _why_ and would probably monitor Harry until he'd sussed out _something_.

On the other hand, Harry had a great deal to do this year, and he'd need funds for it.

Then again, Harry remembered fondly, there were plenty of ways to make money whilst squandered away at Hogwarts. Tom might have begun poor, but he'd left financially secure.

The greater threat lay in drawing Dumbledore's attention, so Harry removed enough to pay for today's shopping list and enough for a year's pocket money, consigning himself to an even busier schedule this year to include money-making ventures.

He hoped poker was still in fashion.

"Vault seven hundred and thirteen now please, and can we go more slowly?"

"One speed only," said Griphook cheerfully – causing wizards any discomfort at all probably qualified him for a bonus this quarter, Harry thought, as accurate as it was uncharitable.

Another wild cart ride later, which Harry really, really enjoyed, they were at another vault. High security.

With all the build up, Harry expected to see something magnificent, and was disappointed when the vault appeared empty but for a grubby little package that Hagrid picked up and tucked deep inside his coat.

Mildly curious – Harry examined it with his senses. All wizards had a sixth sense for magic, and with time, it could develop into something fierce like mage sight or aura reading. Harry was young and unpractised, but Voldemort had always excelled at it, even when he was still trapped in the orphanage.

He was astounded to recognise the grubby package's aura. He nearly tipped off the side of the cart he was so surprised. Hagrid hauled him back by the scruff of his neck.

The Philosophers Stone.

Voldemort had tried to steal it so many times – but Flammel's protection was formidable. And here it was – right in front of him at last. That aura was unmistakable.

But _why_ had it been in Gringotts? Gringotts was a sand castle in comparison to the magical fortress of the Flammel's main home. For that matter why had _Hagrid_ been sent to collect it? Why? Why? Why?

Dumbledore had apprenticed under Flammel. That had to be the connection to Hagrid.

Dumbledore's plans had rarely made sense – but this was a corker even for him.

Harry nodded as Hagrid said he was going for a pick-me-up at the Leaky Cauldron, he did look green, and Harry was glad to be rid of him. Then again, he might have orders to drop the Stone off as soon as he'd collected it or he was going to cash in on his fifteen minutes of fame and get a few free drinks.

Morgana's tits. Harry should have just pick-pocketed him and damn the risks. When was he ever going to get a chance at the Philosopher's Stone again?

It didn't _really_ matter – he was already immortal… but the possibilities… oh how Harry wanted it. Mainly because Voldemort wasn't used to being thwarted. Harry might not need it anymore, but like a toy that had been denied him, he wanted it decades later just because. Plus there was the money.

Oh well, Harry sighed and let Hagrid walk away undisturbed. Now that he knew the Flammel's didn't safeguard it, there was plenty of opportunity to track it down once more. Nobody was as paranoid as Old Nick; those protections had been a work of art.

In the mean time, he had robes to buy.

Madam Malkin proved to be a squat witch dressed all in purple, but she was smiling. Harry was soon hustled to the back of the shop where another boy was having his robes fitted.

"Hullo," said the boy, who looked so much like Abraxas that they had to be related, "Hogwarts too?"

"Yes," said Harry, "First year." If the boy _was_ related, this could be an opportunity. The Malfoy's were rich, politically powerful, and had been loyal. As long as they'd stayed that way during the last ten years…

Harry knew he'd have to practice to speak like a normal first year, so it was good to know that Quidditch was an acceptable topic of conversation for his 'peers.'

Voldemort had been a seeker, a really good one. Harry ached to feel the exhilaration Voldemort had felt in the air. That same joy – the sheer ability to defy gravity was so magical that Voldemort had invented a way to fly without a broom – and Harry craved to do that too.

It was a suitable ability for a budding god after all. Ra would have _most definitely_ approved.

"I do – Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

Harry briefly considered the four houses, coming to the unpleasant realisation that there was only one place for him to go, and it was _not_ politically convenient.

This was going to be a _major_ problem.

A Potter in Slytherin wasn't unheard of – Harry would have to do some research but he was sure at least one of his grandparents hadn't been Gryffindor. With all the propaganda surrounding Harry Potter though… the world had formed expectations based on an imagined person. Expectations Dumbledore had probably nudged along, if Harry knew the man at all. His sorting would be a shock to everyone but him, if the wizards still thought that Gryffindor's were the pinnacle of morality.

Voldemort knew what it was to be sorted into Slytherin and to be outcast. It wasn't pretty. It was bad enough that he was a half-blood, although he at least had fame and money on his side. Voldemort hadn't had that and had paid a dear price for the lack.

Harry would need allies to avoid a similar fate – and there was no better time to start than right now. Bugger it all this was going to be _so annoying_.

"Slytherin, I expect," Harry replied far more confidently than he felt, "Or Ravenclaw perhaps. I don't mind either one." Lie. He wished desperately for Ravenclaw. No one paid attention to the boffins and bookworms.

Dumbledore was _never_ going to stop watching Harry if he went to Slytherin, but what could Harry do about it? The Sorting Hat wasn't a Legilimency attack, with Occlumency, Harry would feel it's touch, but he couldn't block the Hat, and even if he could, the Hat would say that it had been blocked.

Perhaps a quick _confundus_ before it was put on his head? Would a _confundus_ work on the Hat? Merlin's balls this was a problem.

The probably-Malfoy child smiled and suddenly seemed more genuine for it.

"I know that no one really knows before we get there, but I know I'll be in Slytherin too. All our family have been. I say, look at that man!" The boy nodded towards the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show that he couldn't come in.

Harry suddenly felt bad for doubting the half-giant, and then he wondered if he only felt bad because Hagrid had bought him ice cream. His emotions were really screwed up. The remnants of the depressed boy sleeping on the floor wanted desperately to believe he had a friend – but Voldemort's memories pointed out all of the suspicion and psychological damage he'd suffered making him easy prey, and Ra didn't have or want friends. He was a different species, humans were social creatures, and the Goa'uld was not. Ra just didn't have those instincts.

Harry was one _very_ emotionally confused child.

"That's Hagrid," Harry said mildly, hiding his confusion with the practice of many millennia and the back of Vernon's hand. "He's my escort today."

"Oh, I've heard of him," the boy said, "I heard he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting –"

The boy seemed to suddenly reconsider what he was saying with a sidelong glance at Harry and coughed delicately into the hand that wasn't being measured. "That is to say, I, er, heard that he was the gamekeeper at Hogwarts."

Harry suddenly didn't feel so bad about the ice cream. Gets drunk and sets fire? For that was what the boy was going to say, Harry knew. Sets fire to what? His beard? The boy had never met the half-giant but already knew rumours about him? Hagrid must have _quite_ the reputation.

Harry sighed. He couldn't say he was surprised.

"Escort, you said?" The blonde boy clearly wanted to change the subject. "Are your parents working today?"

"No," Harry replied easily, nearly getting a pin through his shoulder as he shrugged, "They're dead and my guardians are muggles so someone else had to bring me here."

"Oh, sorry," the boy said automatically, fumbling for another topic change, "Were your parents magical?"

"Yes, both," Harry didn't feel the need to specify that one was a muggleborn – he wouldn't listen or watch the inevitable sneer.

He'd worked out just what Lily Potter had sacrificed for him last night, and he wouldn't tolerate any insult towards her. He may not be particularly emotional about his mother – but he did have a reputation to start. Insults to the family honour would not be permitted, besides, she had been an incredible witch, and Harry was comfortable being proud about that. It was a fantastic inheritance.

None of the triad had ever been _loved_ before, and Harry would defend that memory with everything he had.

Before they could talk more Madam Malkin said, "That's you done my dear," and Harry jumped down from the footstool.

"Well, I'll see you on the train," said the other boy.

Harry grinned as he went over to the counter to choose fabrics and pay, "See you on the train," Harry confirmed. With any luck, he'd made a useful ally. If he did end up in Slytherin, at least he wouldn't be cursed on the first night.

"Wool, linen cotton or silk?" Madam Malkin asked, gesturing to the black swatch of fabrics on the counter.

"Silk," Harry replied easily. Appearances _mattered_ in Slytherin. He had enough of a disadvantage by being the Boy-Who-Lived; he didn't need to add to it by looking poor.

Screw Dumbledore's suspicious eyes, he had to think about his _survival_ first down in the snake pit.

Madam Malkin's eyes glanced over him, evaluating. He knew she was wondering if he could afford it without having to ask, but something in his posture seemed to satisfy her.

"Oh, and I'd like three sets of casual day robes too please," Harry said. He'd need wizarding apparel to wear on the weekends and in the evenings if he was going to have any sort of workable reputation in the viper's den.

In fact, he'd have to do a lot more clothes shopping. Sigh.

"What colours would you like?" Madam Malkin asked professionally, jotting some notes on a piece of parchment.

Harry floundered. Ra knew a great deal about what colours had suited his old form and had outfits created to inspire different emotions, but Harry knew nothing for his current body. "Whatever you think looks best," he hedged. Madam Malkin seemed to hide a smile at his bewilderment and agreed. He would just have to hope she created an imposing appearance for him. First impressions mattered, not that wizards were a bunch of farming muggles on a far distant planet, or as easily impressed, but the point stood.

"Charms?"

"None," Harry replied. The more magic you had on your robes the better, but Harry didn't dare risk the extra expense. Besides, Voldemort knew _the entire_ set of make and mend charms.

"That'll be twelve galleons, and I'll need a name for the owl."

Harry handed her the money, "To Harry Potter, please."

Madam Malkin's eyes widened and Harry grinned, pressing a finger over his lips. She nodded once and grinned back, radiating happiness at their little secret. His fame was useful for something then. Good. She'd make a good resource positioned as she was. He also knew with _certainty_ that she wasn't Dumbledore's as she was old enough to have apprenticed under the old system, and had never gone to Hogwarts.

Harry cheerfully ate his ice cream, telling Hagrid about the friend he'd made in the shop as if he was just another little boy: A boy who didn't have perfectly reasonable aspirations of galactic domination. They stopped to buy parchment and quills, and Harry gleefully bought the ink that changed colour as you wrote.

Some things just couldn't be resisted. He'd make the money back at Hogwarts.

"What's Quidditch?" Harry asked Hagrid after the ice cream, maintaining his ignorance act, "And what is Slytherin?"

The reply wasn't as informative as he'd like if he'd really need the help and then -

"Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," Hagrid said darkly, " They're a lot o' duffers mind you, but not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one."

Harry repressed a sharply worded reprimand. That comment was flat out unacceptable. Loyalty was hardly a poor trait, and he happened to know _exactly_ how many Death Eaters and other 'bad' wizards had actually been from Slytherin. Only about half his – Voldemort's- forces had been Slytherin, those who followed the Old Ways most strongly. The other half had been equally educated purebloods and half bloods, from a mixture of houses.

Personally, Voldemort had always preferred his Hufflepuff followers. They got tasks _done_ with far less bickering and jockeying for position. Hagrid's comment was just as infantile as he should have expected from the idiot, and from the rest of the world.

They always forgot that people were people, no matter what house they were in at school. It was a common prejudice in the magical world. Wizards didn't care about skin colour, sexuality, or even wealth for the most part; they cared about magic. Did you go to Hogwarts? What house? Oh. Oh, I _see_.

Pleasant mask firmly in place – more than a few people were pointing at him – they continued shopping. Harry bought plenty of extra books in Flourish and Blotts despite Hagrid's attempts to stop him - which Harry regarded with suspicion – to use as some sort of cover for his advanced knowledge. A reputation as a bookworm would do a lot of good in allaying suspicion. The ambition that got him into Slytherin was to read every book in the library, not to conquer the galaxy. He was just half-Ravenclaw. Wizards liked that sort of easy labelling.

Then, _finally,_ they went for the Wand.

It was the most important tool of magic. A status symbol as much as anything else. Proof that you were _one of them._ It fully deserved the capital letter in his head.

Mr Ollivander was creepy. There were no two ways about it, not only were those silvery eyes rather intimidating, but he stood so close to Harry that they were almost nose to nose, and he hadn't aged a _day_ since Voldemort has been in here.

Merlin's beard – was the man even _human?_

Actually, Harry realised with shock, Voldemort had never even _heard_ of the man taking on an apprentice – and he was the only wand maker in the entirety of Britain! For Mordred's sake if the man was _killed_ they'd all be screwed.

Harry realised he had no choice but to Do Something about that – and then jerked back hurriedly as the possibly non-human went for his scar.

Who did he think he was? Trying to touch his scar? Harry wanted a long hot shower and a thorough scrub just thinking about it. If he didn't need a wand – he'd give the creep a talking to. Personal space! Not to mention the trauma he might be inducing if Harry had been sensitive about the subject matter.

"I'm sorry to say that I sold the wand that did it," Ollivander continued, "Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… Well, if I'd known what that wand was going out in the world to do…"

It was a pretty statement; but Harry knew that Ollivander would have sold it anyway. The wand maker had _quite_ the ego, not to mention a flair for dramatics.

Voldemort had used both to his advantage in the past.

Unfortunately, Ollivander had the monopoly on wands here. It wasn't a legal status or anything – the Ministry was very hands off – it was simply reality. There were other wand makers in other districts, but everyone and their ancient grandmother's third cousin, twice removed; third sister's son knew Ollivander's was the only place to go and he kept a tight fist on the Art.

Voldemort had known only the basics, but it was enough for Harry to be flattered when Ollivander tried to match him with Beech, Blackthorn, Ebony, Elm, Holly, English Oak and Maple before he found his match.

The wand Ollivander produced, some two hours after Harry walked in the front door, fit in Harry's hand like warm, perfumed silk. He shivered all the way down to his toes at that first glorious touch, only vaguely aware of the cracking of glass, or the glow behind his eyes as magic blazed around him for one perfect moment of godhood.

"Elder," Ollivander pronounced, his whisper intensely loud in the heavy silence, "With a phoenix feather core. Thirteen inches and highly flexible. I daresay there's a special destiny ahead of you, Mr Potter."

Harry smiled. He was already extremely long lived due to Ra the Extra Organ Only; he owned an Empire and was God-King of a significant portion of the galaxy. A special destiny?

 _I know_ , he wanted to say, but Garrick Ollivander reported to Dumbledore.

"If you say so," he gave a self-depreciating smile, handing over thirteen galleons and going back outside to Hagrid, who had returned carrying a beautiful snowy owl.

Well all right, maybe the half-giant wasn't all that bad.

#

A/N - Liked? Disliked?


	6. Chapter 6

He'd misjudged the Boy Who Lived's importance to the world of magic, Harry realised as he sat on the muggle train – paid for by Hagrid forgetting to ask for his change back – thinking.

He'd assumed it would be something like any pureblooded heir with a fortune of magic and gold to inherit, responsible for vast estates of land and weaker wizards and oh so young. Important eventually, but in a rather distant fashion.

But that _scene_ in the Leaky Cauldron…

Everybody in the building had known his name. Ancient witches had _cried_ to meet him. Even the hags had tried to shake his hand.

He was not merely a figure of interest; he was _sacred._

 **(The crowd howled incoherently, a pulsing beat of emotion, faith and raw power as he glided from the new temple – hand raised in acknowledgement of their adulation. Yes, this was godhood, Ra thought, smiling behind his mask. This was ecstasy.)**

Harry blinked the memory of a time long ago away. No, he no longer had any vague hope that his absence from Hogwarts would be overlooked. The ensuing manhunt for him would be of worldwide, _epic_ proportions. He understood that now.

There could be no flying under the radar – not for Harry Potter.

It was vexing, but it wasn't. True, he'd always be watched. There'd be little to no privacy, and he was going to have to lie like a rug. But he also knew how magical society worked. Blood mattered.

He would never, ever, be ashamed of Lily Evans, but he was a halfblood because of her and that had consequences.

This vast pool of unearned fame would open the doors she had inadvertently closed to him. There'd be no club that refused him membership, no party he could not attend.

Wands and cauldrons, basically – but it was the death toll for his Empire.

#

A dubious taxi driver drove him back to number four; Harry nearly collapsed the moment they passed Magnolia Crescent.

The magic, oh stars above and fire below, the _magic._

"You alright kid?"

"Fine thanks," Harry lied, dazed, "I just had to be up at five to get the train."

The driver grunted – but he didn't really care. Harry had had to show him proof of funds before he'd take him and that was all that mattered to him in the end.

It was like swimming through soup. The air was throbbing with power and potential – as if he'd been meditating for seven hours, done a purification ritual and jumped into an open ley line.

Hogwarts could be like this – if it weren't a school, but the only other places Harry could relate it to would be the old magical sites Voldemort had ravaged. The heart of the Forbidden Forest, the old Dragon Caves, the Aztec's altar, the Ninth Pyramid of Egypt, the Well of Starlight and now #4 Privet Drive.

Wards, it had to be – only they could give off this sort of ambient energy without some sort of natural outpouring to sustain it.

Numbed and strangely electrified, Harry paid the driver, stumbling with his trunk stuffed of goods and the cage around to the back door.

The spare key was in the flower pot – Dudley was always locking himself out thank Ra – and Harry realised when nobody screamed at him, the Dursley's were not home yet.

He chuckled – allowing himself a rare moment of pleasure. They'd still be stuck on that island, in the middle of a storm, hungry and thirsty and –

-What the _Hell_ had Hagrid been thinking?

Reason returned as Harry grew accustomed to the intensity of the magic here, and with it, disgust.

There was no love lost between his muggle family and him, but there was logic to consider.

Hagrid had taken their boat.

It was a tiny thing – but all disasters started that way.

How would the Dursleys get off that rock? They had no supplies there, no fresh water, and no electricity for a telephone – if they didn't leave, they'd die.

They'd have to flag someone down for help. The coastguard might have to get involved. If the Dursley's were smart, they'd blame the storm washing their boat away– but if they were malicious, they could do something much worse. No; Harry calmed down. The Dursleys were too worried about their reputation to say something that would have everyone thinking they were crazy.

And if Hagrid's transfiguration had worked?

Harry's heart started pounding again.

A pig rescued off an island was weird, and no mistake. People would remember it, and people would talk. Worse, Petunia would have been too mad with rage and grief at the loss of her son to _care_ what anyone thought. She'd have screamed to the high heavens about wizards and magic curses.

The Obliviators would get there eventually, if they ever heard of it – but the story would spread, and some other muggle, somewhere, would have family who was a muggleborn – they'd know. They'd seek Petunia out, they'd talk, they'd get concerned – they'd form a little support group – more stories would come in of wizarding recklessness, wizarding cruelty – and they'd have another talk.

And then they'd go public.

Harry stopped himself there, before he drove himself mad with doubts.

If it had been another family – he'd have been right to panic, but it wasn't. It was the Dursley's – and the spell had failed.

Thank the stars it had. Harry didn't know how they'd have managed with a pig even if they didn't immediately assume Dudley was dead and lost to them. How would they have gotten a pig into a boat? How would they have gotten it into the car? What if they'd been pulled over – you needed all sorts of paperwork for livestock, and it's absence was criminal. A conviction was certainly something they'd get revenge for.

They'd have needed a wizard to turn Dudley back – and given Hagrid's lack of ability, that might have meant St Mungo's. A place they had neither the talent nor ability to get a message to. In the mean time, people would have asked where Dudley had gotten to and that meant more trouble.

Forcing himself to let it go, Harry hauled his new belongings up the stairs.

Yes, Hagrid could have damned them all, but there was no telling how the consequences might have played out. One action did not decide the fate of millions.

And wasn't this what Voldemort had been fighting about originally? Hadn't he wanted more education? More plans? More caution?

If Hagrid was an example for the rest of the wizarding world – Harry thought that Voldemort rather had a point.

#

His new room was no longer quite as impressive as he'd thought before the Blending. Ra and Voldemort were both used to more luxuries than Muggles were capable of. A whole bed was poor in comparison to the palaces he remembered in space, or the magical conveniences he'd once revelled in.

 ** _(The slave cringed as he bowed Ra into the room. A mere li by li. The walls were gold-plated, with elaborate designs done in base paint. The table was barely carved let alone gilded, and the food on it was little better. Even the pair waiting on his bed was average. Twin brother and sister – and dressed finely, but their features were mediocre at best. This is all you offer your God Ra thundered, furious, and the slave cringed again.)_**

Still, at least it was _a_ bed. He remembered the cupboard too well to be entirely ungrateful for it, but he didn't think a few silk sheets and cushions were too much to ask for.

He wouldn't have turned down a fruit bowl, a selection of drinks, or a few body servants either, but he'd just have to rough it for now.

With a sigh of profound regret, Harry clambered up onto the dull and worn cotton blanket. Lying down, he closed his eyes and let the vaguely scratchy sensation fall away, his focus all on the current mystery of the magic dancing through the air.

As a wizard, born and bred, he had that faint but poignant sixth sense that permitted him to see, live and breathe magic.

Understanding it, however, took study and experience; Harry was lucky that Voldemort had both for him to draw upon.

There was magic laid down like a web throughout the house, down the street and in what had to be a perfect circle around number four, spreading out a good half mile in every direction. There was a plethora of different scents, sounds, colours, tastes and feelings to be sorted out.

Harry was patient, he sent his senses out right to the end of the array, and vigilantly noting which of the five mortal senses each ward pinged until he had it all within his mental grasp. Then he watched them work – learning from careful observation what their purpose was.

He was no youth – to prod at them with his own magic, sending an alert to their creator.

 _(Tom swore a streak the Matron would have caned him for – not that she'd ever needed a reason – when he felt the string of the alert ward snap. Salazar's shield but he'd been too rash. He should have – the pop of apparition from a skilled wizard, at least it wasn't one capable of full silence - Tom dove under the bush for cover, knowing it was already too late for magic.)_

If nothing else, Tom had learnt from his mistakes.

The standard wards, Harry recognised within a minute of study.

Anti-Apparition, Anti-Portkey, and the Unplottable all expanded over the full half-mile perimeter.

After that, it got interesting.

The next bit of spell craft was a delicate web of blue lace, spread all throughout the house and the surrounding land. Harry had seen the like before – and knew it for the Trace, that particularly prejudicial bit of magic the purebloods had been so proud of sneaking past the Ministry.

It reeked of lemons though, not the usual pine scent and – Dumbledore's own work. Voldemort was all too familiar with the sickly-sweet-bitter tang of his magic to fail to recognise it at first sense.

Oh yes, that man definitely had an interest in Harry Potter.

He must have modified the standard Trace somehow, Harry thought. He studied it carefully from afar until he caught on.

The Trace would register any moderate surge of magic – a spell, or an accident strong enough to have done something that required an Obliviator, Dumbledore's Trace, however, would register _any_ spark of refined magic and the alarm did not go to the Ministry and the Reversal Squad but to Dumbledore himself.

The taste of lilacs accompanied the purple mist that roiled around the house. It lacked the structure he was used to, but he'd seen something similar around the Leaky Cauldron in the fifties and he was fairly confident it was nothing more than a Veil – hiding the magic from the Muggles.

Petunia had had nothing to fear after all, for all her fretting over the neighbours.

The third unfamiliar ward looked like three green rings around the house. Harry didn't know what it was, and that ignorance _itched_ until he recognised he was being stupid. The itch was from the brush of phantom feathers over his skin which made those rings the Forget-Me-Feathers.

Hogwarts and most other public buildings had one – nothing more annoying than being bombarded with owls at all times of the day and night - although that ward had always been a _grey_ oval that felt like mice to Voldemort's senses.

Harry supposed that explained the lack of owls. He knew what wizards were like. They were many of them who would have written to him as a baby, despite his being a baby, to say nothing of the birthdays.

The penultimate ward was blood red, and tasted like copper on the back of his tongue.

A Blood Ward, of course, but what the purpose was, Harry could not divine. Yellow strings of citrus magic wove scabs of red around the house like a shield of scales – so Dumbledore's involvement was plain at least.

Blood Wards _never_ looked like that. Voldemort must have raised hundreds over the years – there really was nothing like wizards blood for a powerful enchantment - but Harry couldn't see the usual runes in there. The only thing he could see was the golden fire of his mother under the bloody ruins.

That made him very wary.

Lily's original work had been a masterpiece of ritual and normally, interfering in it as Dumbledore had done would shatter it but this wreck was still holding, so obviously he'd done _something_ right.

To what end, Harry did not know. Still it was static and affected only the house. That could easily be worked around.

The final ward looked rather like a spider. It was a small disk, set above the rest, bright pinks rippling through and with too many legs, each leg embroiled in the workings of one of the other wards – a monitor of some description. It too, radiated the scent of lemon.

Harry opened his eyes; feeling clumsy in his body of flesh, vision blurring as he tried to readjust to seeing the physical world – one sense, not six.

The ward array was powerful, complicated and inhibiting to any future galactic emperor – but Harry had seven years worth of memories that revolved around dodging the attention of a powerful wizard and all the magic and authority he could wield.

There would be no magic at Privet Drive.

Another wizard might have given up right there. Best to wait until he was seventeen and could move out – he could do as he wished once he had a house of his own and privacy.

Dumbledore was a genius, there was no doubt about that, but he was also a wizard, and wizards saw magic as the be all and end all of life.

Harry couldn't perform magic inside the house or garden, or nearby streets because of the Wards? Fine, he'd just go to the park and do it there.

 _Wizards._

#

A/N - Happy Belated Christmas

P.S - Notice what I'm doing with Warding and Occlumency?


	7. Chapter 7

The route to the park took Harry past Wisteria Walk. He came to an abrupt halt, nearly tripping over his own feet.

 _Mrs Figg._

Changing direction, Harry casually meandered past her house, walking around the block a few times to give himself time to observe.

No car on the drive.

Barely believing his luck, he checked his watch – a broken plastic thing Dudley had once sat on – and saw he had an hour until half five when all of the neighbours would be back from work with their curtain twitching.

Did Mrs Figg work? Was she retired? What use was a spy if she had to work nine to five away from her target? In fact, what use was a spy who lived two streets away from her target? Surely the better house would have been number three or five – with windows that looked right into number four?

Still, she _was_ a member of the Order. This could very well be some sort of contingency plan of Dumbledore's, the man was good at those and especially good at pretending that plan B had been plan A all along. It was definitely worth checking out before he did anything too incriminating.

Mind you, breaking and entering wouldn't look good either; Harry needed some sort of excuse – ah ha! If he were caught, he'd simply say he was looking for help.

The Dursley's weren't back yet and he just didn't know what to do – please help me. He was eleven – it would work. Little boys were helpless, innocent things.

The clowder of cats, and Kneazles now that Harry knew better, meant that Mrs Figg always had to keep a window open. No thanks to her, Harry was thin enough to squeeze through it, which was precisely what he did after a quick glance around for any nosy onlookers and crawling under the hedge.

A squib's house shouldn't have any magical traps, but he kept his senses open anyway. Who knew? Maybe Mrs Figg had enough money to pay for wards, maybe Dumbledore had done something sneaky, not that he'd exert himself without reason and he was the only wizard who'd bother. If there were another magical adult who cared enough for Mrs Figg to raise wards for her – she'd be living with them, not here in Muggle suburbia.

He landed in a crouch on the living room carpet. No alarm either - which made sense given all the cats; it'd be going off all the time and upset the neighbours.

Harry hadn't really noticed before, but Mrs Figg's place was _filthy._ The air smelled unpleasant, there was a deep layer of cat hair on the furniture and carpets, and a few litter trays that could really do with cleaning.

He did not go unobserved – at least six part-Kneazles watched him as he searched the living room from top to bottom. He didnt mind them. Harry Potter wasn't a threat to Mrs Figg, yet, and they'd seen him welcomed here before.

Binoculars by the window. Floo Powder by the fireplace. Parchment and quill in a drawer. Tales of Beedle the Bard on the bookshelf.

Proof that she was in contact with the magical world.

Harry grimaced, he hadn't really doubted Voldemort's memories, but as bad as Mrs Figg had been, she'd never actually hurt him, and a day at hers was _safe_ if incredibly boring. The eleven-year-old part of him felt guilty for breaking into her house like this when only last month he'd eaten stale chocolate cake here.

Thankfully, the rest of him was much more practical.

His eye was soon drawn to a crystal ball on a shelf. It looked rather like a Goa'uld communication orb. There was just enough magic about it to draw his attention, coming from the red gem in the centre of the glass.

Harry eyed it, prodding it with a pencil, and noticed the faint etchings around the base. He drew upon Tom Riddle's third year runes class for a quick translation; _Seek and Tell._

He tested the air with his tongue – and found the faintest hint of copper.

Blood Magic, fantastic. He put the orb down in a hurry before he gave in to his first instinct (Voldemort's) and smashed it.

Somebody, _three guesses who_ , had taken his blood and bound him with it.

Violation. There was no excuse for this sort of immoral charm. Not even the most paranoid pureblooded parent would take their child's blood and invoke a curse upon it.

Worse, it was already far too late to do anything about it. His blood had been taken. It was right there, already ensorcelled. All he could do now was put up with it - a feeling both Voldemort and Harry were far too used to.

What did it _do_?

It was used and or observed by a squib – which rather limited the practical applications. Either it was a masterpiece of the craft that used ambient or stored magic to work, possibly able to gather it by itself, and all Mrs Figg had to do was _watch_ it; or it was exceptionally crude and Mrs Figg only had to watch it for some sort of reaction first set out when it had been made.

Harry closed his eyes and focused, letting the rest of the world fall away – searching only for the thread of magic that bound him.

It was old, good. The metaphysical chain looked rusted to Harry's senses, and it sounded fuzzy, instead of a pure note or chord, good signs those. Blood was an excellent link to a wizard, you couldn't evade what lived inside of you, but it could fade quickly as the blood degraded if it wasn't prepared properly. Obviously, it had been prepared properly in this instance, or it wouldn't have lasted so long. The only other reason it could have weakened would be the more metaphysical side of things; blood drawn from Harry Potter as a baby had little in common with who he was now.

Given the change he'd just been through, Harry couldn't see these few drops lasting for long. That fact was the only reason he wasn't throwing up and cursing the galaxy for his bad luck.

The link pulsed, slowly – and Harry began to understand how the magic worked.

Some sort of crude monitoring charm; if Harry Potter was ever away from home for more than a day – it sounded the alarm. Given it was also blood magic, Harry wouldn't be surprised if Mrs Figg could track him down if he was nearby, and tell the state of his health with some degree of accuracy.

Well shit.

Harry opened his eyes, gritted his teeth, and walked away from it.

He _had_ to leave it. He'd check back every time he could, get a sense of how quickly the link was degrading, but if he messed with it now, it was game over. He was within the boundary of Dumbledore's wards, and the man would be _very interested_ to know what sweet little Harry Potter was up to.

He searched the rest of the house in a controlled fury, but found nothing more.

Figg was no dastardly clever plan of Dumbledore's; she was here to provide information for the _real_ wizards and to be a Floo connection that the Ministry didn't monitor.

Why she'd been a member of the Order, Harry didn't know. She clearly wasn't of much use. Perhaps the Order wasn't as organised as he'd assumed if this was the first line of defence? Or perhaps he was low priority. That would be nice.

Harry left as easily as he entered and that was that.

#

The stolen blood was making him paranoid.

Instead of getting to the park and practising his glamour charms, Harry found himself back in Privet Drive, improvising a ritual room.

Petunia and Vernon would throw a _fit_ if they knew what he was doing in their bedroom – and his viciously gleeful musings cheered him up until he almost forgot his anger.

His dear aunt's vanity desk had a good-sized mirror, and if he sat on the bed – shudder – with his back to the mirror in the wardrobe, with a candle in front of him, it would do.

It was the difference between a surgical operation with a team of expert doctors and nurses in a very good hospital and a field medic alone with a dirty hacksaw in the trenches, but Harry (and Tom) were used to working with what they had.

Harry didn't _think_ Dumbledore would be so crass as to enchant him directly – too much risk, _anyone_ could find it – but it was certainly worth five minutes to double check.

Voldemort had been out of the game for over a decade after all, his memories were fallible. Dumbledore could have invented a new sort of magic that Voldemort had never heard of. It was just the sort of thing he'd do too. He'd always liked hoarding knowledge.

Relaxing into the right frame of mind, Harry opened his eyes and let them go out of focus as he passively gazed at his reflection – and the endless echoes between the two mirrors.

He saw that single chain – as thin as jewellery - but the undeniable scent of cloves told Harry it was powerful yet. There was no scent of lemon though, so either Dumbledore wasn't responsible, his personal residue had faded, or he'd found a way to cover his tracks, or something else Harry hadn't thought of.

There was nothing else on him.

No ethereal tether, no glowing spots, no strange smells, no echoes of music, no aftertaste on his tongue. Clear.

All except for his scar – which looked Killing Curse green, tasted like perfume, and sounded like his mother screaming – and his wand, which lay in his lap as a test to check his trance was looking for the right things.

His wand appeared to be glowing a clear blue, and when Harry focused deeper, he heard a rush of water. It was exactly what Voldemort had felt when he'd first discovered the trick, so Harry allowed himself to relax. Eventually, his wand would become particular. Attuned to his aura, it would develop as he did becoming his mirror in turn, but for now it was neutral – and suited for a young wizard just discovering his powers.

He looked himself over again, but found no trace of the golden fire that had been Lily's magic.

That echo was really gone, used up to give him sanity when Ra and Voldemort battled it out inside his mind.

It was a shame; Harry would have liked to keep that memento of her with him, but he would not waste her final gift.

#

Borgin eyed the blonde child that had entered into his shop from the corner of his eye, suspicious, and wary.

Few children made it all the way down Knockturn Alley – even in broad daylight – to his shop without the help of an adult with a quick wand, a wary eye and a bad reputation.

Which meant he either wasn't a child, he'd been very lucky, or something else was going on.

The boy walked like a pureblood although his features were not striking enough to name him of any particular family. He stood tall and proud, dressed in discreet silk robes that screamed old money and old magic. Those robes ought to have seen him robbed blind twenty paces in, and his body sold to the hags for their brews- But here he was. Perhaps he was a disguised auror? Was this a trap? A new sort of raid?

He was unsurprised when the child requested a whole slew of potions. He _was_ surprised that the child – or thing – knew that Borgin sold them. That information wasn't exactly secret – but only those _in the know_ knew.

A test then.

"I don't sell potions, boy, try Mulpepper's or Diagon Alley."

The Not-A-Child's eyes flared white – almost as if he was a Seer having a vision, and his voice deepened to something inhuman.

"Mr Borgin, **I do not have time for games**. If it calms your nerves, you were recommended to me by a former employee of yours."

Borgin narrowed his eyes as the white glow faded and the voice went back to a squeaky brat's again. His wards _should_ have warned him of something inhuman entering his shop. Besides…

"Former employee?"

"Mr Riddle."

The child tilted his head and smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, but it was familiar. Borgin felt his own oily-polite one fade.

Riddle? No. Surely not…

There had been rumours of course, how could he have failed to make the connection? He'd been such an efficient employee -but he was banished…and yet…what if it were true? He couldn't afford that type of enemy. Riddle had always been vindictive. A little petty torture wasn't beyond him even for an insult made twenty years ago. He'd been extraordinarily persuasive though… Borgin had been sorry to see him leave.

"Potions, lad? I might be able to rustle up one or two. I'm a fair hand at the cauldron. What did you want again?"

"Veritaserum – high quality, do not think I will not know, Invisibility, Volubilis, Confusing Concoction, Forgetfulness and the Draught of Peace."

Those potions all together like that… the child wanted to interrogate somebody and he didn't care if Borgin knew it. Borgin felt his suspicions solidify. No. This was no child.

Which meant that he was a customer.

He clapped his hands together wetly and smiled his very best smile.

"Those potions aren't cheap, young sir. Very difficult to brew they are, it takes a skilled Master of the Craft and many a rare ingredient. Still, we only use the best."

"Fifteen galleons and not a knut more." The child interrupted blandly, giving Borgin a flat, unimpressed look. "Twelve if the Veritaserum is not brewed by Dolos."

Children didn't haggle. Nor did they know the alias of his best supplier.

Borgin trudged into the storeroom without any further negotiation, closing the door behind him to activate the protections before tapping the bricks to enter the _second_ storeroom, fetching the requested potions and checking that yes, the Veritaserum had the tag around his neck for delta, Dolos' sign.

The Not-A-Child would get his potions all right, but Borgin had won the greater profit. Information on Riddle, even the faintest hint, had always been worth a great deal of money – to the right sort of wizard.

#

A/N - Bet you weren't expecting an update this quickly :) Happy New Year!


	8. Chapter 8

One Portkey from TerrorTours later – after explaining that _no,_ he didn't want to go on the Zombie Trail or see the Bermuda Triangle thank you very much madam – Harry stood in a battered tepee hut in Washington.

Portkeys were _interesting._ The sensation was rough, but it did rather remind Harry of Ra's blessed Stargate. Was a Portkey a temporary wormhole of some sort? If Harry could learn to _create_ them – then he had an incredible advantage that he couldn't _wait_ to explore. The Goa'uld had always been limited to the worlds where a gate already existed and those planets close enough to that Gate for ship travel to be feasible.

Space was vast. If a journey took more than two months it was not worth doing.

If Harry could create his _own_ …visions of greatness beyond anything the Goa'uld had ever known careened before his eyes. There would be nothing to stop his rise!

Well, there was time for that later. The glamour charm from earlier had taken him hours of practice, and it had left him with a nasty headache to boot. Trying to calculate and craft a Portkey would probably reduce him to squibdom. He'd have to be patient.

He was growing sick of patience.

In the meantime, hanging around in any one spot was not a good idea. MACUSA was far more paranoid about muggles than the Ministry was, and Harry had no intention of submitting his wand for a license.

He changed from robes to Muggle wear, all of it unfortunately cheap, stuffing it into Dudley's old backpack and left the hut at a brisk trot following the signs towards Nacotchtank. A small river marked the border between magical and mundane. Harry stepped through it without getting wet, and appeared in a large park near a road full of cars driving on the wrong side.

Harry was on a strict time limit now that he knew about Mrs Figg's charms. He'd left the wards at 17:18, and had twenty four hours to get back inside them before they blew the whistle. Worse, the Dursley's would soon be back, and if he knocked after 21:00 they wouldn't let him in the door. They were going to be in a truly _foul_ mood thanks to Hagrid too.

He wasted no time. He marched from the river over to a nice big display board that had a helpful 'You Are Here' arrow. One bus ride later and he was in a library.

It took him five minutes to find the military history section, and from there it was easy to identify the symbol the American's had been wearing on their uniforms.

The Air Force.

Harry studied the book carefully, noting the details of their uniforms, and what each little symbol of rank meant until he was confident he could identify the rank and role of everyone he could meet. Bars of silver and gold, flowers, eagles and stars. Easy enough for what he had in mind.

His plan was simple, and relied a lot upon Riddle's knowledge.

Riddle knew a _lot_ about muggles. They _loved_ paperwork. Somebody, somewhere, would know more than they should about the Stargate – probably some sort of records clerk or accountant – and bam! Harry would find it.

Admittedly, it was not his best plan, but he had to _try something_ damn it. He would _not_ lose an Empire without a fight.

Another bus ride later, and he sat on the lip of a decorative fountain, kicking his feet and sipping at his Coke – really, he _loved_ being able to eat what he wanted for a change – and watching the people go up and down the stone steps of a building that was too big and shiny to not be important.

There!

Harry identified his target by his blue uniform, with all the right symbols. Now, as long as the target didn't get in a car… no – he was heading for a pub. Excellent .

Potions were the key. A wand was flashy, obvious, and made any watching Muggle think _magic._ A potion, however, and it was all 'why, that fellow over there is drunk!' 'He's mad!' 'Cross the street, dearest, and don't look him in the eye.' It also had the added side benefit of being _much_ harder to trace back to any mischievous wizard.

He _had_ to remember that for the Dursleys.

Harry followed the man until he was sure of his destination, and then walked confidently down an alley, nipped behind a dumpster, well out of sight of any of those pesky CCTV cameras, and downed the Volubilis potion to disguise his voice and the Invisibility potion to turn invisible.

He spent a whole thirty seconds, amazed at just how awesome magic was before he got down to business.

Walking into the pub was easy even if he was invisible; Harry just had to wait until someone opened the door again for him to slip inside.

Harry saw his target neatly parted from the rest of the herd in a vaguely private booth, digging greedily into a burger and chips. Harry silently walked across the floor and sat down next to him, holding his breath and lowering himself onto the seat slowly.

The Draught of Peace was first to be dropped onto the nearest chip. If anything went wrong, it would at least keep the Muggle calm and quiet.

The man soon ate the right chip, and the slight frown between his eyes faded as he sighed, relaxing into his seat, putting his burger down to reach for the cup of coffee.

Harry spiked the next likely looking chip with the Confusing Concoction.

It would open the man's mind, make him more susceptible to suggestion and help him forget the interrogation afterwards.

One bite later, and Harry carefully added three drops of Veritaserum to the next bite. It was a damn good thing he was invisible and that the target was already confused, else the Muggle might have wondered why his meal tasted _awful_.

Honestly, it was ridiculously easy. He could almost understand why Dumbledore preached about Muggles so often. Without wizarding protection, they really were hideously vulnerable to magic. In fact, it was so easy he waited for something to go wrong – but it didn't.

Everything remained quiet and calm as the Muggle simply surrendered to the magic.

Knowing the potions had a time limit, Harry shook off his hesitation – it wasn't like this would hurt the Muggle, and anyway it was just a Muggle. What had Muggles ever done for him? – and got right down to business.

"Where is the Stargate?" Harry whispered. "Speak very quietly. This is all confidential, yeah? Nothing to worry about, just a friendly chat between friends."

"I don't know what a Stargate is." The target murmured dreamily.

Bugger. But had he really expected answers from his first target? He might have to go through _dozens_ before he found someone who knew anything. _Salazar's_ _shield_. Did no one care that he was on a time limit here?

Not that he was willing to give up just yet – he'd gone through a lot of effort to get here and getting a target alone would be difficult. He'd been lucky to get this one and he needed information as soon as possible. This Muggle had to be wrung dry before Harry would concede that it was useless.

Perhaps the term Stargate wasn't familiar? You did have to be specific with Veritaserum. You got exactly the answer you asked for, and only that. Muggles could well have given it some sort of scientific name, or this man had only read about it and didn't know the physical location.

"Where is the Chappa'ai or the Ring of the Gods or the Circle of Darkness?" Harry stumbled over the foreign word again. Really, Stargate was so much easier.

"I don't know what that is."

Harry decided to try another angle.

"Do you know of a device that looks like a huge circle with writing on you think might be alien in origin?"

"Yes."

Ha! Harry was triumphant. His first target knew something! Harry had tried to limit the odds by choosing the right military force, someone of high rank and recently reporting in to the government, but even so, it was a stroke of good fortune and he patted himself on the back for his excellent planning.

He was a genius!

"What do you call it?"

"The Doorway to Heaven."

 _Muggles,_ Harry sighed. They were just as bad as wizards in some ways.

" _Where_ is it?" He tried not to get his hopes up and then -

"In Colorado," the target whispered back.

"Where in Colorado?" Harry asked immediately.

"Under Cheyenne Mountain."

"Describe the security situation at Cheyenne Mountain."

"Guards outside and in - heavily armed. You need the proper pass to get through the first door. There is an electric fence, security cameras, motion detectors, infrared cameras and a minefield. No one knows about it yet so it's still low security. If it works like it is supposed to, we'll have to adjust the security plans."

"Why doesn't it work?" Harry frowned. The Muggles had already been through it to get to Abbydos. Perhaps this man was out of the loop? Perhaps they'd only rustled up enough power for one use?

"I don't know."

"When was it last activated?"

"Never."

Now _that_ was disturbing.

"Would someone else be able to make it work without your knowledge?" Harry asked, trying to find some logical thread to follow.

"No."

"How involved are you in this project?"

"I'm in charge of the funding and administration." Harry smirked, when his luck was good, it was _good._ Follow the money indeed. So why didn't the Muggle know what Harry knew?

"When will it work?"

"Last report said a few years before they understand it enough to activate. They can't translate the writing they believe are instructions."

"What will you do when it works?"

"Go through. See what's on the other side. If it's a threat, destroy it so the aliens can't come through the gate to attack us."

"If it's not a threat?"

"Explore. Find advantages for America."

Time was running out, the man's answers were already becoming clipped instead of slurred. Harry hesitated, there was so much more he wanted to know – but the target's eyes were blinking rapidly and he rubbed at his eyes, shaking his head as if to clear it.

It was time to go.

Harry added a full dose of the Forgetfulness Potion to the Muggle's coffee, waited to see that the man drank some, and carefully eased his was out of the booth, out of the pub, and back into the alley behind the dumpster, well out of sight before his Invisibility potion could wear off.

Tentatively, he called his first interrogation a success.

He had a location for the Stargate and an idea of the security measures the Muggles were using. What should he do now? He checked his cracked plastic watch – he really had to buy a better one – he had hours left still.

Could he get to Cheyenne Mountain?

Not without another Portkey – it was too far. Besides…

Harry felt uncomfortable admitting it but he was too weak. He'd need his wand to get through the security the Muggle described and to build up that level of finesse again was going to take years of hard work and study.

And there was the new mystery to consider.

Harry _knew_ that the Stargate had been active, and yet the muggle said otherwise. Lying was impossible under Veritaserum, unless the target had been tricked and spoke truly only as far as they knew, when the truth was something else entirely.

He should find a second source for confirmation. That was a thought so obvious he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Cursing Ra and Voldemort both, Harry did an about face and stalked back to the pub.

He'd bought plenty of potions. He had more than enough for round two.

"What's your name and rank?" That should probably have been his first question – in future, he'd not let the Voldemort and Ra parts of him make any strategic decisions.

"James Adams, Captain."

"Why are you in charge of the alien project?"

"I wanted a desk job and my Uncle's a General." Harry snorted. Of course.

"Who do you report to?"

"General O'Kennedy, Special Operations."

"Who does he report to?"

"I don't know."

"Who leads the research on the Doorway to Heaven?"

"Dr Meyers."

"Where can I find these people?"

"Dr Meyers' is at Cheyenne Mountain, he lives in staff quarters. General O'Kennedy is in Washington today, reporting in like me."

Harry's thoughts raced. He had maybe three hours left before he had to go. He _really_ wanted to speak to these men – but Cheyenne Mountain was out of his league and governmental buildings were too risky with MACUSA always watching. He had to get this man on his own, unseen, for at least half an hour without anyone wondering where he'd gotten to if he was to have a decent chat with the man.

Slowly, a plan formed.

"What does General O'Kennedy look like?"

"What is his schedule like today?"

"Where is his office?"

"What car does he drive?"

"Does he have a driver?"

"Where does he park?"

"What route does he take between his car and his office?"

"Is he a punctual man?"

"Does he work late?"

Adams didn't know everything of course, but he knew enough. OF course, Harry would have to check in regularly with this muggle so:-

"How often do you report in?"

"Where do you live?"

"What are the names of everyone you knew involved in this project?"

#

The General drove a nice big car, with darkened windows, and whenever he was in Washington, he always went out for a long lunch, driving away by himself and returning a few hours later.

Perfect.

Harry, still invisible (and one day he'd invent a potion that didn't taste like burned rubber and sage) leaned against a brick wall, waiting.

Timing was everything.

The General sauntered into view, a cardboard cup of coffee in hand. He fished his keys out of his pocket. He unlocked the car. He opened the door – a sharp bang – he swung around. Harry sidled into the car behind his turned back and scooted over to the passenger seat. The General shrugged, reached in and set his cup into the holder, swung himself inside, did his seat belt – drank another mouthful of coffee and froze.

Harry let out a sigh of relief.

Lucky. If he hadn't had a cup of coffee Harry would have had to wait and see if he could drug him at the restaurant or something even riskier.

"Open your mouth," Harry told the Muggle – held firm under the grip of the Confusing Concoction and the Draught of Peace. Harry dropped three drops of the truth serum onto his tongue and got down to business.


	9. Chapter 9

It took Harry two of his precious remaining hours to confirm his suspicions; as far as the Muggles were aware, the Stargate had _never_ been used.

Which was obviously bollocks – except it wasn't. A cunning wizard who had known it was coming and prepared extensively could sidestep the absoluteness of Veritaserum – but a muggle?

Yeah, _no_.

So it was real and true _fact_ that the Stargate was not completed _._ The Americans hadn't managed to connect it to a viable power source. They hadn't translated the writings. They had _no idea_ how to use it. They didn't even have more than two dozen active military personnel on site, and the ones they did have made up a guard and a small research team, not the sort of exploratory team or strike force that had fought (and defeated) Ra on Abydos.

For Ra's sake the Air Force were still _lobbying for funding._

Which meant his memory was wrong – or Harry wasn't thinking creatively enough.

He went for a walk and to have a good sulk. At least if he looked busy, no well-meaning Muggle would ask where his mummy was.

He'd been on Abydos. He'd _seen_ American Muggles, spoken to them and killed them. The Stargate had definitely been active. He'd sent a bomb through – or tried to. Maybe it had been some sort of illegal mission? Some lower ranking man had authorised it on the sly? Or it was all so confidential that even the men who thought they were working on it knew nothing?

A clock bell chimed the hour, reminding him that it was time to go – and stars above he was an _idiot._

Time travel.

The Stargate was a superconductor of energy made by a race known only as the 'Ancients.' Any scavenge that came from that era was worth a thousand times more than any other. Ra had enough legends and folk stories about them that Harry supposed it was not impossible that these Ancients had managed time travel.

The Stargate itself _also_ tended to be the centre of a lot of strange events – not that Ra had believed his Jaffa's reports.

 ** _(My Lord! A Jaffa prostrated himself before the throne. We did not know what to do! One moment they were there, the next they were gone and the gate was glowing. The artefact vanished before my eyes! I could do nothing, I swear it!)_**

Ra had thought it lies to cover up failure, but Harry saw those memories with different eyes now. He could recall at least two-dozen different abnormalities centred on the ring.

His theory was becoming more solid by the second, and more importantly, wizards considered it old hat.

Easy enough, but terribly fiddly. Why bother? The time turner was well known, and it wasn't the beginning of such research. There had been the Hour-Reversal charm, and before that rituals and dances, secret ways and paths between worlds.

So he knew it could be done. It wasn't as outlandish an explanation as it could have been.

An older race would have had plenty of time to experiment, even if they were Muggles. Two paths could reach the same destination, he supposed, even if the ways were very different. Magic and science.

Ra's ship _had_ been entering hyperspace when the Naquadah-enhanced nuclear missile had detonated from the inside. Ra had had his own Stargate on board. That made for a lot of energy, a lot of potentially weird and wonderful reactions.

Time travel was the _least_ of the possibilities, when he put it like that.

Harry grinned, startling a passer-by. Oh yes, when he had luck, he really had it. If Ra had accidently time travelled, then Harry had scored the jackpot.

#

Harry landed right back in the TerrorTours office, feeling only mildly queasy from the mind-bending trip, and the feeling passed as he walked back up Diagon Alley, Ra's body pumping healing chemicals through him with every step.

Without Hagrid's loose tongue to consider, Harry went immediately to Diagon Alley's public library for a good rummage. He had maybe an hour before he had to be on the train back to Surrey and it was an hour he'd put to use.

'Waste not the unforgiving minute' was going to become Harry's mantra – he could just tell.

The magical world's public libraries were nothing special. Most wizards had private collections of books and really didn't like to share the power contained within. ' _Knowledge is power'_ was basically a law when it came to wizards. One could not defend against a spell if they had no idea it existed. It was disturbingly literal too – magic was life after all, and write enough magic down into pages – pour enough life into them… and they could become very particular.

Being a librarian in a wizarding library was not for the faint of heart. There was a reason that purebloods warded their houses – and it wasn't always to keep people out.

Public libraries were seen as a charitable effort towards muggleborns and as such, their funding waxed and waned depending on the current fashion. It also rather limited their content and kept the unsuspecting muggleborns safe enough from the deeper mysteries.

The books were always a mishmash and mostly of poor quality, but Voldemort had found them useful places. He'd been very poor indeed in the beginning, and he needed somewhere safe – and free - to go in the long summers. There would never be any real power here, but there was occasionally something useful.

There were shelves full of old school texts, their bindings falling apart, boxes full of old Daily Prophets used as chairs and stacked three high for a desk. There was damaged stock from the bookshops (a copy of Favell's Famous Fires was still smouldering slightly), a complete set of Gilderoy Lockhart's adventures that glittered ominously, and a dozen editions of the first Mad Muggle series. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry was sure he saw the book wiggle.

He went immediately for the newspapers. He'd get no answers about time travel, but he could answers his questions about the Boy Who Lived, the Order of the Phoenix and what had happened after Voldemort fell.

The results were, well, typical of the wizards.

Wizards were a passive lot. The only thing they'd ever really argued about was blood. There'd never been a racial divide, no prejudice against gender or class and given Ra's experience with multiple cultures, Harry could understand why where Voldemort had not.

Competition.

Unlike the primitive cultures Ra created and preferred, the wizarding world had no need to squabble over basic resources like water, food or warmth. Even an unskilled wizard could conjure or locate water with a flick of his wand, if he had not already stored a lake inside a bottle. Food production was a non-issue. As for warmth, well, it may very well be that the first spell ever invented by their Neanderthal ancestors was to call forth light and fire from the night.

The only thing they actually competed over was magic itself.

So Harry couldn't say he was _surprised_ that everything had been swept under the rug when Voldemort fell, but he did feel bemused.

The status quo was all well and good, but surely even basic common sense said that if you did not address the issues that gave rise to Voldemort in the First War, then the Second War was only a matter of time. Treat the symptoms not the disease and the patient dies.

Harry closed the Daily Prophet and returned his pile to the box. He hadn't gotten every answer he was looking for, but he had enough, and it was time to go home.

His former followers had either gone to Azkaban – and would have to stay there until he found a way to break them out – or had claimed the Imperious curse and had bribed their way out.

It was smart enough. Voldemort would have been insulted by it, but Harry saw no reason for offense. Languishing in Azkaban for him was a nice gesture, but empty. It was far more useful for followers of the Old Ways to be sane, healthy, rich, respectable and still following the Old Ways with each turn of the season, setting an example for the rest.

He moved mechanically through the streets of London, and soon he was back on the train to Surrey, sitting on the chair behind the luggage rack to avoid as much notice as possible.

His Death Eaters – Marked and unmarked – were a resource he was desperately going to need but they would bite the hand that fed them if handled wrong.

Malfoy and Karkaroff had done the best for themselves and Harry would have to approach them both carefully for different reasons. Malfoy had become more powerful _without_ Voldemort than with him and indeed would probably see returning to the yoke as a demotion. Which it was, if Harry was being honest with himself. Lord Malfoy was the big fish right now; he wouldn't want to play second fiddle.

Tough luck. If he'd wanted independence, he shouldn't have taken the Mark.

Still, there would be real, dangerous, resentment there that Harry would have to account for, whereas Karkaroff would be terrified of Voldemort's return - traitor that he was. Still, his position as Highmaster of Durmstrang made him useful, and he would know that too, hopefully enough not to run when Harry started playing around with the Dark Mark.

The Carrows had avoided Azkaban and attention both, so they were probably holed up in the Rock – the family's famous stronghold. Harry had found an announcement for the birth of twins, Flora and Hestia so presumably the family was doing well, and he'd keep an eye out for those two at Hogwarts. He had no doubt that they would answer his call.

Avery had similarly vanished from the public eye as had Jugson, Mulciber, the Notts, the Selwyns, Rowle, Gibbon, Macnair, Wilkes and Yaxley.

Rosier was dead – but Harry wouldn't believe it until he saw the body. He'd trained Evan _personally._ The wizard had been too good to die. Crouch was also dead, a real pity that. He'd been young, but as Crouch had well known what would happen if he were caught, his father had shown no mercy. Harry would repay the favour. Pettigrew had fallen to Black, which was irritating; he was the only other witness of the events of That Night, and Harry had questions. Still, what was done was done.

In Azkaban lay Dolohov, Travers, Rookwood, Bellatrix, and the Lestranges. They would have to be rescued of course; nothing would inspire fear like a mass breakout from Azkaban – once Harry had worked out how to do it.

Of his Marked Death Eaters that left only Snape to brood about as the train sped on and the buildings became poorer and poorer.

Snape had been easy to recruit, persecuted for following the Old Ways, for being poor, for being a half-blood, for being alone – he'd been vulnerable to care and attention. His Mastery of potions made him very useful – but on Snape's information had he – _Voldemort –_ gone to the Potters. By Snape's word had Lily Potter killed him. Voldemort. Snape who had begged on bended knee for her life. Coincidence? Unlikely. Vexingly, that did not change the fact that he remained useful. A professor at Hogwarts with all that that entailed…

Harry's stop arrived before his decision did. He got off the train with his backpack, bullied a taxi driver into taking a brat home and found himself face to face with Petunia.

#

"Back are you?" She asked coldly, blocking the doorway with her body.

"Yes Aunt Petunia," Harry replied obediently, _hating_ _hating_ _hating_ her. Who did she think she was to treat him this way?

She glared at him, but now that he was a new man, Harry could see the fear behind the hate. It made him smile inside instead of cringe. He straightened his back and looked steadily at her, waiting.

Never again would he cower before her in fear.

She stood aside.

"Well don't just stand there and let the neighbours gawk at you," she snapped. "Go to your room at once."

#

When it became clear that Vernon would not be storming into Harry's room for his revenge, Harry sat at his lopsided desk, and began to make notes on what he'd learned about the Order of the Phoenix. Then he ripped it up, realising it was too much of a risk.

Besides, the Prophet had made it clear the Order was basically in retirement. If Dumbledore was still using them, it was more akin to friends doing favours for each other than anything more sinister against the Boy Who Lived. The Prophet had no subtle hint of organised vigilante movement that suggested they were still active, and without Voldemort, they had no reason to be. Dumbledore would still have his political friends, but that was different.

Harry barricaded his door with his new trunk and took out a fresh sheet of parchment.

Time travel. He underlined it neatly in his new colour changing ink, wasting three minutes in watching it shift through thirty shades of colour. Magic was so _fun._ He shook his glee off and focused.

Outside of the Department of Mysteries or private collections there was not going to be any useful information. If he was going to work out once and for all if he'd time travelled – and more importantly how _far –_ he was going to have to use good old fashioned parchment and ink.

Ra had died in the 19th Rise of Ra. Harry knew that for _certain_ because Ra had been on his way to Aten via Abydos and a few other minor planets for what amounted to his birthday celebration – even if it was like no celebration Harry knew.

Feasts, gladiator games, religious rituals, passing judgement, granting a few rare pardons, handing out promotions and executions in equal measure – and that was only during the day. During the nights there was dancing, displays of talent for Ra's pleasure verging from the acrobatic to the erotic and – Harry blushed.

Harems. He had _harems_ now.

He coughed. Right. Well. Moving on.

He carefully translated 19 Rises into Atoks. Space-time being based upon the Goa'uld home planets cycle mixed in with the adopted Egyptian calendar with exceptions made for the individual circumstances of each planet or moon. There was no point saying night fell at the 16th hour if it would still be daylight because of the slower orbit caused by a second moon or whatnot.

The calculations covered three pages before Harry moved on to Voldemort's knowledge of star movements to project forward and finally came to answer he was fairly confident of.

He was three years and two months in the past. The galactic date was 18.997RR.

Harry sat back in his chair, numb with shock even as Ra's presence meant he felt none of the ache in his back that he really ought to after being hunched over for so long.

Relief was bliss.

He revelled in it until Hedwig ( a proper wizarding name) barked from her perch, forcing him to get up and give her some treats and attention.

"Three years Hedwig!" Harry murmured to her – Petunia had the sharpest ears in Surrey, "Three whole years before I have to actually be Ra. It solves everything!"

When his luck was good it was _good._

"I'll be fourteen," Harry said dazed. A tiny part of him remembered that fourteen was an _excellent_ age to discover a harem, but the rest of him swiftly moved on to far more pressing concerns than the fact that every priestess was technically his bride whose vows to their Order did double duty.

"That's enough time to enchant something that can get me to Abydos, or to sneak through the Muggle base to the Stargate. Hedwig, how do you feel about becoming a sacred animal? I'll make them build you an entire temple! And there's this mouse species the size of a pig you might want to see."

Hedwig swivelled her head to look at him, and her big yellow eyes somehow managed to convey disapproval.

"I'm not lying."

"Preck!"

"I promise!"

"Preck."

"Oh fine, but you'll change your tune when you see them. I'm going to bed, go hunt some tiny half-starved field mouse, see if I care."

" _Preck_."

A/N: - I'm always happy to debate HP if you have any questions :)


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